They mill around the desk, crotchety wasps, all of them, calling to the receptionist, making caustic asides, until finally relieved of their luggage by capable young men in tall hats, they stretch their livid lips into smiles and cross-fade to their rooms. I do not smile. I’m waiting for Dylan Thomas. Feeling distanced from my own narrative, as if reliving a demoralising flashback, I’m waiting for a poet whom I love more than life itself, in order that we can speak, soul to soul, artist to artist. Yesterday, the managing editor of Mademoiselle introduced Candy Bolster to him. To Dylan Thomas! Over lunch they talked poetry and the rights to Under Milkwood. Candy mentioned all this with a breathless flourish in the elevator at eight this morning and a sob crawled from my throat before leaping, lemming like, into the space between our feet. Tears brimmed as I slid through the yawning lift door and sped towards the restroom. I’m in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel, waiting. Per
If only I could remember the first smile that lit up your face when your little hand got ahold of my fingers. How peaceful you looked, napping in my arms, so safe.ReplyDelete
If only I could recall the first words you pronounced, longing to tell me about the exciting new things you had seen.
All those memories are lost to me now, like an old movie that has faded away.
Instead, I see your broken skull- blood streaming out of it like a fountain. I hear your high-pitched voice cutting through the darkness of the basement, trying to explain where you have been. As the lights go on, I cannot help but stare at your hand reaching out for me, pleading for help. I can feel my fingers losing their grip of the cold steel of the gun, and fear evaporates into pain.