The Present

Douglas Reid Skinner

Can I open it now? the boy asks his mother,

who holds his free hand in hers as they walk

away from their Hodges Street home and along

the edge of the Green, to the birthday party.

They stand at the door and wait to go in.

Inside they can hear all the boisterous boys.

No, it’s not one for you, she whispers to him

through a smile that he will recall for as long

as his memory goes on serving him well,

for as long as he remembers every so often

to stop what he’s doing and ponder a while,

let the tool in his hand dangle unused

or the half-peeled vegetables wait in the sink

while he sits and thinks his way through the years,

getting smaller and smaller, his trousers shorter,

until he can see his mother still standing,

standing again in the dress with bright flowers,

the cloud of perfume that reminds him of meadows…

to stop and remember them back on the porch,

back in the sunlight and quietly waiting.

In his hand is a present wrapped in blue paper,

in the other, her hand that makes him feel safe,

the hand that she waved as she went down the steps,

the hand he will hold at the moment of death.

They stand on the porch in afternoon light,

the present grows heavier and heavier in his hand.

He knows that the door will open to darkness.

Again and again, he doesn’t want to go in.

Featured on 4 November 2021