Leaving

 

She's in the car,

 

bags on the back seat,

 

heart thumping -

 

a mixture of fear and excitement

 

with only the tiniest pinprick of doubt,

 

 

 

she knows he'll be there

 

waiting in the car park,

 

crumpled jacket, jeans, rucksack,

 

probably unshaven...

 

the merest hint of grey in his stubble.

 

 

 

Switching on the car radio, she

 

twiddles a knob to find a music station,

 

hears something familiar, unfamiliar -

 

knows the tune but never noticed

 

the lyrics before - co-incidence,

 

or what?

 

 

 

"she's leaving home, bye bye."

 

 

 

Ah, that girl was more thoughtful

 

writing a note for her parents…

 

 

 

whatever - she thinks, as she turns into

 

the car park, waves, pulls up beside him

 

and moves over to the passenger seat.

 

 

 

He doesn't speak but they clasp hands

 

briefly before he takes the wheel,

 

and they're off...

 

 

 

as the song ends she realises

 

she left home a long time ago,

 

but for him the wee small hours would

 

tell a very different story -

 

 

 

she may never know the

 

agonies of indecision when he stubbed

 

his toe on a toy truck in the hallway,

 

before closing the front door and

 

posting his keys through the letterbox.

 

 

 

Another song on the radio, another

 

Beatles track, her mother's favourite -

 

this time she knows the words,

 

 

 

"Baby you can drive my car…"

 

 

 

she sings loudly, tunelessly, and their

 

laughter breaks the tension…

 

 

 

he puts his foot down, the bruised one

 

that doesn't seem to hurt any more;

 

a watery sunlight glints on the

 

windscreen, the car gathers speed

 

and they’re on the motorway.

 

 

 

Tomorrow she may text her mother,

 

send a postcard even,

 

a postcard from the Northern lights,

 

wherever that may be,

 

 

 

not that it matters,

 

right now nothing really matters -

 

tomorrow is a long time away