The child

(in response to Beachcomber, a poem by Carol Ann Duffy)

The Child. Objective. Looked at from a distance. Cold. “The” Child or the “Child”. Chilling. Contemplated. Not related to. This is a hesitant path. On the path, the child. Stumbling. Ankle turned on a loose stone. Limping. Alone. There is no such thing as a baby without a mother, said Winnicott. Always in relationship, even when alone. Relating to the absent mother, the abandoning mother. For some, the mother who is there to return to, a reassuring presence to take leave from, to go off along that path and return with tales of discovery. But not for everyone. Wherever I go, I drag the rejection along with me. It trips me up, not a single loose stone, but treacherous rocky terrain where it’s hard to get a firm foothold. Hard to feel the smooth stroke of the sole of my foot on warmed earth. This earth is cold, hard. This child is barefoot. The child is limping. Here is a boulder, come sit, come rest. Here is a sheltering ledge, come nestle under. Nestling in the rock. A hard nestling. No blood from a stone. But there is some warmth. The monkeys – I’ve forgotten the name of the experimenter – Harmen, Harlow? – their preference for the soft cloth, for tactile comfort over food. We need food. We seek it but only to meet that need. We do not linger there. The child does not linger with the cold frame mother who offers no comfort, no nurturing of the soul. The child.

She's standing by the dining table, the one that used to match the wall-to-wall cupboards with with white doors, glass and mahogany detailing. Seventies furniture that was taken away 10 years later.

Her hair is short, very short. Unusual for those days. Girls were meant to look like girls, not boys in skirts. And she IS wearing a skirt. A dress to be exact, with vivid patterned colours, lost in the black & white reproduction of that moment in time. Her head is tilted to one side, her hands are holding the hem of the skirt, as if she's about to bow down. It's a lighthearted pose, but there's no smile on her lips. She is serious. Her eyes two pools of black sadness.

Myself, a serious 6 year old at a birthday party. My own? Can't remember. My brother's perhaps.

I remember my grandfather asking me to smile more. No one likes a long face. But the long face was all I had to offer. Most of the time. The child has grown into a happier woman, a woman who's kept the long face for most of her life. But the black & white has been replaced by colours.

Life changes. Sometimes for the better.