Things That Return

Things That Return

Some things return with dignity.

Winter, for example,

slipping back into the house

through the cracks in the window frames

like it still pays rent.

The cold always finds us.

It creeps over the floorboards,

wraps itself round your ankles,

and waits for someone to say,

“I’m not that cold,”

before proving them a liar.

Then the kettle returns to duty,

huffing and muttering on the stove

like an overworked aunt

who knows perfectly well

this family would not survive

without hot drinks and a sit-down.

Tea returns us to ourselves.

That is what I have noticed.

So does the invisible elephant.

He is back again, of course,

near the kitchen doorway,

where he likes to stand

as if supervising both the healing

and the biscuit allocation.

Only some people see him.

Usually the ones who have suffered enough

to become interesting,

or spiritual,

or slightly allergic to nonsense.

He appears right on cue

when somebody says,

“No, honestly, I’m fine,”

while staring at their tea

like it has personally betrayed them.

Outside, the chickens return daily

with the confidence of minor royalty.

No humility. No gratitude.

Just feathers, noise,

and the firm belief

that every human on this property

exists to meet their administrative needs.

Mavis, especially,

returns each morning to the back step

to lodge the same complaint

she lodged yesterday,

which appears to be

that breakfast has not arrived

five minutes before she wanted it.

She has the energy

of a woman who writes letters to the council.

And grief returns too,

the cheeky thing.

Not always as a grand tragedy.

Sometimes it slips back in

because a smell, a song,

or a shaft of late afternoon light

has opened the wrong drawer in your chest.

It sits down uninvited.

Takes up space.

Makes itself known.

But laughter returns as well,

which is lucky,

because otherwise we would all be done for.

It comes back in ridiculous ways:

a chicken chasing nothing,

a mug with a chipped handle,

someone crying so hard they snort,

the elephant standing in the doorway

looking as though he has heard worse.

And comfort returns.

Quietly.

Without performance.

In warm cups and silly moments,

in the kind of room

where nobody has to pretend too hard.

That is the thing about what returns.

Not all of it comes to haunt you.

Some of it comes back

to check whether the fire is still lit,

whether the kettle still works,

whether there is still a chair pulled out

for whatever version of you

has made it home this time.

And if there is,

then even the old ache

seems to mind its manners a little.