Alarm Call
Alarm Call
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Twenty-one years ago when Helen was five and Carolyn was two and Lauren was still just the proverbial twinkle in the stalker’s eye, I wrote a poem about the way a typical morning kicked off in the McPhee household. The other day the stalker laid his hands on it when he was tidying his desk (yep; there’s a strong possibility it’s lain undiscovered in the same spot for over two decades...) and when I re-read it I realised that we’d reached exactly the point I’d been dreading all that time ago. I have to confess, I did blink back a rogue tear, but what I hadn’t anticipated back then was the glorious young women who’d take the places of those gorgeous little girls of mine. The nest might be empty this Christmas, but there is rich consolation in knowing they’re out there in the world, getting on with their lives and still choosing to share their time with us when they can. All the same, my message to those of you whose day still starts with that just-a-bit-too-early morning alarm call is this: squeeze the juice out and treasure every minute. It’s gone in the blink of an eye.
Each morning,
One of them spills from her bed
And shuffles along the landing
To try her luck.
The handle turns,
And like a whisper
The door opens.
For a moment there is silence
Pregnant with anticipation...
Sometimes there is no response
From within, and the door
Shuts with a sigh.
Sometimes, too,
There is a warning growl.
Disapproval snaps at hope,
And sends it hurrying back across the landing
To lick its wounds.
Sometimes, though, there is a greeting,
Sweet as a kiss.
Then she ventures in,
Delighting in her welcome.
Of course, the other is never far behind
(Here no need for stealth - she knows
She treads a safe path).
And so the two
Explode into our semi-consciousness,
Showering us with their needs:
A drink, their clothes, breakfast,
A cuddle. (“I want to go
In the middle, between you both.”)
And there, at the heart,
Is the real, unspoken need:
I need
To be here with you:
Safe, loved.
I need no more
(Apart from the drink).
Here, too, is my need:
I need them here
Needing me; their first thoughts, on waking,
To come and share
Their world with me.
But close the door, girls,
Because the ghosts
Of the women you will become
Linger on the landing,
Waiting like thieves to snatch you away;
And only the ghosts
Of the children that you were
Will trip across the landing
To waken me, and I will weep.