Visiting Time

Lush swathes of sound
Ripple, roll from the piano.
I realise I'm swaying.
H's home for the weekend.
The air becomes a jungle,
Unfamiliar, exotic.

Then Silence.

He's stopped for a beer
And is thinking of food.
Mum's glad to leave him to it,
Proud he's learned to cook.
Must be in the genes.
Apart from mine.
I eat peanut butter from the jar.
"What'll you have?" she asks him .
"Pasta salad." says H
"There's plenty in the cupboard."
She's off to the telly
With her yoghurt, and banana
("They're good for you")
And chocolate biscuits.

The shelves are a wall of crisps
Biscuits and various jars
Which caught Dad's eye
On his furtive trips to the supermarket -
Mustard, picallilly...
Yellow's his favourite colour.
He painted the stairs and landing yellow
Once, while Mum was out.
When she got back
She pretended not to've noticed,
Until he went out:
Then she painted them white again.
It was never spoken of.
Dad buys a lot of custard powder, too.
He's already got his supper.
Something out of a yellow tin.
On toast.

Disgruntled grunts rise from H's rummaging.
"September 97! January 96! 96!!
My mother the psychopath.
August...Oh my God!"
Outraged, he brandishes a bottle
Of anchovy essence,
Separated into oil and khaki fish:
I remember it from his pizza making frenzy
But pizzas take time, the dough has to rise,
And this is just a quick visit.
A disgusted rustle. The bin is bulging.
"There must be some proper pasta in here somewhere"
Behind his eyes rise his wellstocked shelves
In the place he now calls home.
Disconsolately he clutches
Something in date, but not penne,
The one he buys himself.
The pan's been bubbling for ten minutes.
In it goes. "I can't believe there are no olives..."
"There must be" I say. "Mum hides them
At the back so Dad won't eat them"
"Why?"
"So there'll be some when you come home"
"Urgh! They're mouldy!"
I find three and a half more
In a jar in the fridge.
H squints at the label.
"'Consume within three weeks of opening'
I try to be helpful:
"Either they've been mislaid since Christmas
Or they're Dad's secret supply."
The lid is unscrewed. H sniffs,
Cautiously.
"I suppose they're in brine..."
He goes off to the garage
To look for some frozen peppers. They're 1995.
"Usually I steam slivers of courgette..."
I offer him a carrot.

At last he's concocted something sadly Beige. With orange and green
bits
(the olives, very pale green,
Nearer yellow, really)

Mum bustles in, beaming.
H is peering into the fridge.
"What are you looking for?"
"Parmesan"
She reaches in confidently.
"I got it after the last time you came
And complained there wasn't any.
Here it is!"
H unwraps it. His face twitches "But it's blue"
She examines it. "Only on one end.
You never minded before
And you're still alive!"

H's been away too long.