Page 33 of Sad Girl Hours
bracing for impact
But the ground doesn’ t rush up to greet me.
Instead, I awaken in the woods
high in the branches
of the same mighty oak as yesterday.
I reach out to touch the sky
sure it must be close.
My fingers close around October air.
This tree has known a thousand lives
wedded to each with a ring.
I have lived only one
known none.
I slip from the branches
with barren fingers.
My eyes close.
I brace for impact
that never comes.
It’s a start. I suppose frustrationisan emotion. Not really one I want to centre an entire poetry collection on, but oh well. It’s at least within the bounds of my autumn theme, although I am starting to think the bucket list will be of more concrete benefit to Saffron than to me. I don’t begrudge any of it, though. I had such a nice time the other day, and we’ve got a jam-packed schedule of all my favourite things for the next few months.
My phone chirrups to let me know Saffron’s outside, so I pack my things away and head out.
“Happy Birthday!” She greets me with a hug and places a party hat atop my head, the elastic underneath it twanging against my chin.
“Happy Birthday to you too,” I echo, grinning and posing with my hat as she takes a photo. “I have something for you.”
After a brief rummage in my bag, I produce a comically large rosette with the number twenty emblazoned on a sun, with orange and yellow ribbons below (home-made, of course). “Here we are.”
“Amazing,” Saffron says. “Even the astronauts on the space station will know that I’m twenty today.We’retwenty today.”
“Damn right we are. We’re officially in our twenties,” I say, before pulling a face becauseoh good Lord, I’m in my twenties. I’m running out of time to be a child prodigy.
Saffron also pulls a face, but she returns it to a smile when she looks at me. “Here’s hoping our next decade brings us lots of fun things.”
“I’m sure it will. Just think, by our next big birthday, I could be a best-selling poet and you could be … I don’t know, on the moon.”
Saffron laughs. “I don’t want to be an astronaut, Nell, just an astronomer.”
“Bor-ing,” I sing-song.
“Boring?” She plays along with mock outrage. “Astronomers are so many things. We’re not just scientists, we’re philosophers. We’re part of a worldwide network of people collaborating at any given moment, constantly exchanging data and ideas, all with the same aim of understanding more about the universe, answering questions that we previously thought were unanswerable. What could belessboring than that?!” Her face is aflame with passion as she says this. Her tone was jokey but her words were not.
I feel strangely soft inside at her outburst. I can’t bring myself to tease her any more. “I’m very sorry for accidentally disparaging your life’s work. I actually love how passionate you are. It’s very charming.”
