On a Train
The book I’ve been reading
rests on my knee. You sleep.
It’s beautiful out there –
fields, little lakes and winter trees
in February sunlight,
every car park a shining mosaic.
Long, radiant minutes,
your hand in my hand,
still warm, still warm.
The past few days have been good ones. Long, radiant minutes with nothing special in them. Except that I’m not sick and I’m not apathetic. I’ve had lists, and ticked them off. I’ve had work to do, and sick boys to look after. I’ve sat on a sofa reading Seamus Heaney and Wendy Cope to Henry, and crying through the good bits while he sang them back to me. I’ve done the washing-up after every meal – whoa, hang on – and gloried in it. I hate doing the washing-up. This is a big deal.
Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary has happened. But every car park has looked to me like a shining mosaic. I’m not sick and I’m not apathetic, and that, I find, is more than enough.