White

The marble is cold against my feet as always; that’s why I hate marble- it drags up senses you learnt to forget. Its so cold and comprehensible, it’s analytical instead of poignant; or taut instead of comforting. I would have never chosen marble for a kitchen; if I could I would choose carpet. Kitchens are where magic happens, where food develops into passion and if treated right, into love. The emotions one feels, the expression of hope or longing or lust, can be explained in the simple presentation. Where lies can be told and you have to consume them with greed of a poor man. Where honesty can be forgotten like stale bread in a tin.
The kitchen is green today, a light shade not the form you would find on the ground on a summers day, or the kind you would wait patiently for in a queue of people. No, its light and pastel- almost no existent. There is no emotion with green. Though I remember this kitchen at its best, it had pattern décor- focusing around the sixties of love. I could swirl for hours in the patterns on the wall, but there is a memory for patterns. There was warmth that came with it, a glow that I can’t remember how. Lights, Trees, Presents. Oh yes, Christmas in a home that wasn’t a home then but a place, carving gently into the thigh as the guest mouths hung open with saliva developing in quick succession. A sharp blade slicing a clear almost surgical cut into the skin, lucid and precise; the technique of a good woman, who is soon to be a great mother. The cut spreading in width until finally liquid oozes from the seams, a flash of red and your heart stops. The liquid gushes freely now, and you realise the euphoria you felt wasn’t of pride but a drunken state laced with anger and mixed with resentment; as you watch you husband bleed. There wasn’t a Christmas after that.

The glass of wine on the side is inviting isn’t it? Well no, not inviting. I do not want it near me or around me as comfort or for love. It’s tempting, alluring, a passion I cannot grasp, for when I do it rips from me what I fought so hard to maintain.
I can think of reasons not to drink from this crystal glass, the symphonies playing out between my finger nails and the rim.
I could think of reasons not to drink as easily as I can count to ten. Like beige. When the kitchen was beige everything was good, there was never a time when something couldn’t be solved or reasoned. Until a voice shouts: So Where Were You? An answer so simple: Here. A beat of a pulse quickening with lies as a fist hits the granite work surfaces hard. The skin ricocheting of the hard cold worktop and then reforming around the structure of the solid bones. A response is given, in a form of a question, and an answer in forms of lies. Yes, Here. And then panic, what did you do, what did you loose, what did you forget. Then peace, the answer is nothing. A beat again as the eyes lock onto you, they eyes of a lover, of the one who scares you but can strike passion in your heart. Then the truth arrives. I Am Glad To Hear Your Daughter Is Of No Importance, Go Back To Your Drink, That’s Your Family Now. The truth is you forgot, and you still can’t remember how. Was it at school or is she too young for that? Was it at college or is she older now? You remember her birth and her third birthday, when you slept in the bath with the bottle of Pinot Noir that Cassidy from next door gave you. But you don’t remember ever seeing the birthday girl. The Beige went after that- and so did all your memories.

So there is a reason not to drink, a simple reason as ever before- beige. But then I know I’m in control don’t I? I can always have one glass, to calm me down. To have one glass with dinner, this is tremendously civilised and very well-to-do. One glass, then? What have I got to loose?! White.
I remember when the kitchen was white, it was summer and the sun bounced beautifully off the top of the surfaces and gave an affectionate glow that filled you with warmth. There was chatter about the place and a buzz of excitement, words such as ‘Congratulations’. ‘Boy or Girl’? ‘Excited’? ‘Good Luck’, were being thrown around like rice at a wedding or cakes at a party. We were happy, he was happy so no one expected a thing. White. The guests had all gone, and Mary from number 32 had brought a bottle of Champagne, none the wiser of the drama of the Christmas years before. The bottle had been opened with such sophistication, the sprays wetting the audience around the happy couple as we smiled and laughed and enjoyed the attention. Then George put a cork into the bottle and it was slipped away from prying eyes, from our eyes. George was in the study writing a speech he was then later going to try and read, stutter, falter and fall at. We had only gone into the kitchen to ensure it was clean, no food around the edges not residue on the surfaces. The bin bag tide neatly on the floor and the fridge door closed tight. But the bottle was there, and we could see it. It was only right to celebrate such a spectacular event, everyone was entitled to it, so why not us? So we got the flute glass, we have dignity, and we poured ourselves a glass. From bottle to glass, liquid to lips, we drank just one glass. Raising it high in the air and whispering with power: Cheers!
But one glass never stays at one. White, that’s what made it worse, white. Everyone was shocked at the thought, but no-one would forget the sight- from plural to singular. When the white was stained red only days later, reflecting the colour dramatically as we slumped on the floor. Covered in a sea, a sea that could never come off the white floors, the white doors with red and stains, the white handles with residue even the toughest cleaner couldn’t resolve.
White. That’s what I’d have to loose.

So the glass has its ties, its liabilities. So what?! So does everything in this life, we all know this. If I put the glass down and turn my back on what I want; to slowly walk away. Will I have more memories of my children? Doubtful, they will leave in a whirlwind of excitement and joy. What of my husband? Will he come back and remember how we used to be. How we were able to stay awake to the early house just dreaming of a future together, having passion instead of pain?! No. No matter what you try and do, if you resist what you want, you’ll want it soon enough, all over again.

So I should drink? Forget all this; forget the title attached to my name: ‘Clean for 5 years and counting’. Forget Lucas’ fifth birthday in rehab, counting the hours until a visit from a child with rose tinted cheeks and eyes the size of asteroids, only to find no-one was coming. Forget white, forget beige, and forget all the little memories linked with this kitchen. This kitchen where it started on the floor, by the door caught up in infatuation and lust. To where it ended right here, by the counter caught up in lust once again.
Why deny the one you want? What is there that can ever make you stay? Purple.

Mummy, I know you can’t hear me, but I wrote you a card. I know you get mad when I go into your room so I’ll put it hear on your bed. You will wake up mummy, wont you? I won’t break Mia’s doll house again, and I’ll put my entire card pack back after I play. I promise I won’t go outside and mess up the garden like I did last summer. Do you remember? You might not, you had to go away that summer, and daddy repainted the kitchen. It’s purple now mummy, after you left this time he made it purple. That’s why I made this card, so you know what it looks like. Come back, and we’ll be good, really good.

Purple, they wanted me at one point; they needed me; just as much as I need them. The glass is still here, if your wondering, in my hand. I know I’ve come up with reason why I can, why it’s simple; from bottle to glass, liquid to lips. Why I can go back to the blur of days to weeks that fade into months. Yet there are reasons why I can’t, there’s white; of loosing something so pure. There’s purple; the feeling of want and need. There’s beige; regret for time lost and moments forgotten. There is you, and there is me, and there is the fact that we both stand here today running through the reasons why we can stay and fight. You just had yours written out the moment you sat down. Whereas my choice? I thought it through and that’s why my mind is clear to tell you of that process today.