She lived in a time

She lived in a time of rebellion- it was the eighties. Punk rock and Pink Floyd, Ska music and cultural bleeding; intertwining into one another like a Jackson Pollock painting. The air tumbled chaotically around them with political tension and anarchism. In a Thatcherite era of poverty and youth estrangement from society, any chance of derailing the system was grasped enthusiastically with both hands and drenched in gasoline- paraded above their heads in a flaming cascade like the torch of Olympus. They were gods, revolutionaries, rebels, university dropouts who had no care for the future because the end of the world seemed to be a breath away, a fingertip touching a red button unleashing the fires of hell.

Doc- marten coated toes tapped the floor in 4-4 beats to the heavy drum of urban decay, and the gradual silence of mines which once pumped fire into the veins of the country. Thumping heavily like an industrial heart. She was moulded in the fiery heart of change, sparks flew as she and her pack dappled the ground with their footsteps as they ran, breathlessly, from roof to rickety roof, always one step ahead of shiny heads, always one step away.

In this grey jungle she grew claws, hidden behind gloves of politeness and eloquence but constantly drawn and prepared for combat. Keeping her wits closer than she kept her friends, survival was the ultimatum, but surviving alone was never tolerated. Many outcast and wandering souls were drawn to her entrancing strength and generosity. They swore camaraderie and cast their bonds in iron; defiantly facing the future and its hooded face arm in arm, prepared to sacrifice everything for each other. To drive and pick one of the flock up at three o clock in the morning was a simple errand. They protected each other and understood each other in a way no family ever could, lost in their beautiful moments.

But, they were no lost boys, and this was no Neverland; growing up was inevitable. She acquired jobs in the tough side of town, preaching and patiently moulding tiny minds to perceive the nature of the world; its beauty and arrogance and cruel boys who hit other children and children with violent minds to mirror their violent pasts and small voices calling ‘’Miss!’’ and consuming tiny printed letters on pages and wonky letters and writing and marking and files and paper and faxes and-

Then it began to speed up.

Love, marriage, child, annulment, child; alone.

Somewhere in between these years her pack had fallen through the cracks of work and life and exes and a new home in the countryside. Far, far away from the colourful, rich smog which clung to her clothes like a bad cold.

She never recreated that pack. The local villagers were too gossipy, too shallow, too invested in materialism and pints at the pub. One by one, she lost her friends numbers.  Contact restricted to an occasional phone call around Christmas time and a promise to visit, to keep in touch. They were white lies, both parties knew that continued contact was highly unlikely. If anything they were only calling for nostalgias sake. There was no harm in indulging in memory.

Her time became filled with high pitched giggles and unchanged nappies. Her children grew in the shadow of a patient smile and an iron fist cloaked with duck feathers. Enclosing them in a tiny tiny bubble, they lived in a world apart from the rest. Utterly isolated apart from a rickety bus which passed through their street three times a day.

Her work began to pull her head into the sand, as the house around her shrunk as her children grew and gradually became more and more fractured. She went on unaware. She looked up briefly to glimpse at her children. The elder, losing themselves in music, applied war paint each morning to meet the world with a sultry scowl. The younger increasingly anxious about her appearance, the tendrils of insecurity began to wrap around her young mind as she was drawn into the world of makeup and clothes and magazine art and models.

And she carried them, with twelve hour work days, weekends drowning in books to mark. When the tide of papers subsided, she looked at her children. Properly, for the first time in three years. Her children had changed- extravagantly. The younger has slimmed, conscious and careful of her appearance. She blossoms beautifully under the impression of mainstream media, but maintains the sensitivity her mother gifted her with. The elder still wears war paint, defies the preferences a ‘’girl their age’’ should submit to; with self-pierced ears and ripped combat boots. So similar to how she used to be.

Now we stand at a crossroads- she is ageing and aware of it, of how soon her eldest will overtake her into adulthood and of how soon it seems that they could leave. Her younger about to begin her first set of qualifications, pushed to her limits which the eldest managed with a blasé attitude.

Where will they go?

What will they become?

Will they leave her?

How will she manage the world around her without the anchor of her children?

As of New Year’s Day 2016- the eldest had 533 days of childhood remaining.