“Acting My Age”& “A Momentary Crossing” by Bonnie Meekums

Acting My Age

I am the crone who craves

Naked skin against mine

Who yearns giving in to gravity

The safe, strong cradle

Of a lover’s hold

I am the soul who dreams of freedom

Who burns through barriers

Cool wind on my cheek

As silence enfolds me

And yet

I am the woman who fears

Handing in her keys

When my few short moments

Spent in the belly of bliss

Are done

And will I still dream, when I’ve left this room?

And will I still smell the sweet scent of sex?

Or will I miss the pull of gravity

And naked skin against mine

A Momentary Crossing

I remember us downing cider and ploughman’s lunch after tramping across Sussex fields, singing Those Were the Days, My Friend.

I remember day turning to night as we kicked stones under stars.

I remember wearing that mini dress, pulling its hem down over thick, amber-coloured tights as we listened to the sounds of silence.

I remember us getting high in St Ives, holding each other close in two thin sleeping bags zipped together.

I remember carrying the warm blanket of your amity with me long after we morphed into friends.

I remember our paths crossing the tracks of time, then running parallel and casting off in an elegant country dance.

I remember presents of books and vinyl, your voice inked into them, shortening miles and years.

I remember our boys born five weeks apart - yours the colour of milk chocolate, mine vanilla ice cream, playing together as brothers.

I remember you telling me you’d had a funny chest all winter, and no it wasn’t asthma but you’d had an x-ray.

I remember holding breath and tears, my heart running like a wayward child, the day you rang to report the diagnosis.

I remember you walking uncertainly round Manchester’s Christmas lights, me clinging to our too-brief moment, wishing I could stow it somewhere safe as it slipped like sand through my hands.

I remember wanting to lead you away from the MacMillan unit so we could go on one last mad adventure. Instead, I said I’d look out for your kids, my voice snagging like torn nails on nylon.

I remember hugging you, the familiar soft contours of our bodies filling each other's hollows, conversing in a language all their own.

I remember peeling my body away from yours, leaving my imprint in your spaces, and yours in mine.

I remember flying home to a halting message about things that needed to be said, but at the hospice the thought had butterflied away from your morphined brain.

I remember splinters in my body left by the shrapnel spray of losing you, and the needle stuck on my record-player, singing Mary Hopkin’s song.

Bonnie is normally a writer of flash fiction, with occasional forays into memoir, poetry and novels. Her work has been published in several literary magazines, including Reflex Press, Briefly Zine, Dribble Drabble, and in an anthology by Ad Hoc Fiction. She lives in Greater Manchester, UK, with various family members who refuse to leave.