Full Circle

I vowed I'd never come back to this street yet here I am.

With my mother's soul hanging in the balance, the need to come back has bloomed fast like flowers from a baobab tree at sunset. Or maybe I lived too long in an emot

ional desert and now am seeking some resolution, some medicine for my soul sickness. Even now, as I think of Mum, I think of a fighter. She's always been a fighter. Or she was, before her spirit got broken. I can only hope she'll be drawing on that former resilience to aid her in the hardest battle. On the shortest day of the year, morning comes with a gray and cloudless sky. Stray clumps of leaves fall back onto the pathway, dotted with puddled reflections from parked cars. Blocks of flats have sprung up along this avenue, piercing the line of elms.

At the midway point, a hotel, set back a little, a relic of faded grandeur, is partially obscured by iron railings. Soon bluebells will cluster, peeping out like shy maidens from the foliage. Many of the redbrick houses have been turned into rentals.

I no longer live in the equivalent of a psychological war zone yet somehow feel like an invader stepping onto the old terrain.

Like an orphan blown in by the wind, dark tendrils of the past creep up and grab me unawares. Alert to every rustling, I am reminded that though I may have escaped my childhood traumas, in some sense I am still a victim. I also know if I wait long enough, the shadows will subside. There will be no more leaping out from bushes, no bending my will to another's, to save the woman who bore me from getting hurt. Not any longer.

Is this what it means to come full circle?

***

Breaths mingling with the damp smoky air, I halt halfway. The red mailbox, though not exactly an old friend, still holds a satisfying solidity. Forming a sort of greeting but not relinquishing its secrets.

There's a kind of static in my head all the time. I just can't get the doll out of my head. What would happen now if I …

What I did was bad, wasn't it?

The wind-whipped sale sign, an unexpected snag, focuses my attention. Perhaps if I wait here long enough the sign will blow away what remains of the mental cobwebs. Hovering like a heron beside a flood-swamped nest—it would be truly ironic to be reported for loitering.

Yet no one seems interested in a woman of indeterminate years dressed in black leggings and denim jacket, carrying a nondescript rucksack. I wince when a van drives past, splashing my ankles with cold, muddy water.

The-house-is-here. Still! Here, in front of me!

But then, why wouldn't it be?

***

On the face of it, a well-preserved place with modern double glazing, and a small stone wall sheltering the front. Already, snowdrops have sprung from a semi-wintry soil. Since I was last here, a reassuringly sturdy door has replaced the old one.

Should I knock?

The question is answered when the door suddenly opens and out comes a man dressed in a wedding suit (father, grandfather or otherwise related to whoever's getting married). Holding a holdall, he's followed by a woman in a blue and white polka dot dress holding onto her hat against the wind.

The woman asks if she can help me.

Good question.

"Erm… well, I see you have your house up for sale."

Sculped eyebrows make polite question marks.

Taking a deep breath, I ask her if she might be interested in selling it.

"Oh!" A thudding oh — leaving an impression of something unfinished. Judging by the unlined neck and peaches and cream complexion, somewhat younger than me. Either that, or she has a good surgeon.

"You're clearly busy," I say, stepping away.

She explains a friend's son is getting married.