Cheryl Wilson

I love his cute daggy hair
that at 36 he still has hair to call cute and daggy
I love the way he hangs on coming home at the weekend, and when I phone to make plans
the carer on duty
whispers
takes the phone to the bathroom
goes out the front
or if he’s caught her red-handed she talks stilted
Yes. Gotcha. This Saturday. Everything will be ready. We’ll order taxi for two o’clock –
so he won’t know it’s me and get anxious because he’s not coming home right away.

I love it when the yellow cab stops outside my front and I get the big smile.
He manoeuvres the huge overnight bag upstairs, dumps it down in his room – we go down
the stairs and the ritual begins
co-ffee please
I take down the mug, his mug, the one painted with blue fish he watches me put in a spoonful
of instant coffee
su-gar please
sugar please, who?
mum, he says while I pour in water and plenty of milk so he can’t scold himself while
drinking.

I love that he still reaches for my hand in public
that he loves riding the Lygon Street tram
I love it at the Nova that he won’t budge till the last credit’s gone from the screen
I love his cappuccino moustache when afterwards we call into Genevieve’s for late
afternoon tea
I love it that he’s had a good time
I even love his awful best black boots.

About Cheryl Wilson 

Writing stories may be a way of life or as an escape from real life. I enjoy inventing characters and placing them in surroundings once familiar to me – especially our inner northern suburbs during the seventies. I also write shorter pieces about real people who are closer to my heart.

Copyright Cheryl Wilson, September 2024. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Cheryl Wilson.