Your whole hand gripped my finger in the dark. Under each passing streetlight, I caught your eyes – open and awake, like they shouldn’t be. It was the middle of the night. On the car radio, Cyndi Lauper sang Time after Time. All airport taxis come from 1984 and go back there when they’re done.
On the five-hour flight you’d screamed, wriggled and fought me, eaten every snack in my bag and exhausted every book and toy I’d packed. You’d charmed our fellow passengers before take-off then soon made them wish they were sitting somewhere else. On another plane.
But on the last leg of our journey, you were still. Comfortable, quiet, resigned perhaps.
As the taxi turned into our street, your head lifted. Did you know where we were? Could you see? Something seemed to excite you.
We pulled up, and I wrestled your cumbersome seat from the car. The cold air bit your cheeks and left pink toothmarks. We ran to the front door.
“Dah!” you said, as we skidded over layers of fallen post.
“Dah! Dah!” you said again and again, pointing to the fruit bowl, the fridge, the giant kitchen clock. Further in you spotted your rocking horse and couldn’t wait to tell me about it. “Dah!”
|Baby and bunny reunited|
After two weeks of warmth and lawns that led to the sea, I didn’t know if you’d remember this cold flat was home. But you did, and to watch you was a delight.