You will pull on socks and clothes, layering your daytime outfit over your pyjamas – the amount of times I’ve told you not to do that.
You’ll think of me in the room next to yours and enjoy ignoring my imaginary voice in your head. Ignoring whatever I say, of those things adults say to children, when children are growing up.
You will imagine yourself replying sarcastically, with one of those things children say to adults, when children are growing up.
Later, you will regret not listening to my imaginary voice in your head, as you walk six miles – from the crossroads where you are dropped off – sweating hard, in your layers, your pyjamas stuck to you.
You won’t enjoy hearing my imaginary voice in your head, saying those things adults say to children, when children are growing up:
“I told you so.”
The midday, midsummer heat will shimmer above the sticky, tarmac road. You will be scorched, as you travel up the centre of the valley. And you will have a little one to carry for the last part of the walk too, remember?
Imagine me now, at The Beginning, shaking my head – knowing this would happen – which I am.
Remember, how I would get, when I would give you a list of all the things you hadn’t listened to me about?
Well, I knew you would regret not charging your phone last night.
I knew, on the journey, you would feel wretched that you can’t text me, or check if you have any messages from me.
When you eventually switch on your phone, you will see After, Words.
You will read my story once straight through, then read it again slowly, many times, clicking on all the links.
I’ve tried to stretch time, make ten minutes of the written word speak of a lifetime of me – far away, but also next to you.
The sun has again risen,
I am letting the light in
Once upon a future time,
You’ll get lost in your story,
You’ll feel lonely without me,
It’s going to be okay.