The Comb

I blink. I don’t know where I am.

I am looking for an aid to restful sleep but the bright lights make me swirl around like Dorothy.

This tornado is so loud. It punches my ears.

The blue lady amplifies my confusion.

Don’t scrub me away
- As if the soap will make me more bearable.

Keep your hands clean from the wreckage
- As if washing me will protect you from what I have become.

I prop myself up on the yellow cushion at night and half believe I am in the place where people push your head down.

The place where nobody comes any more.

I think of this place a lot.
I hope there is occasion to go back there.
I plan my next visit in the little book with cherries on the cover.
Like people outside of the wreckage plan holidays and birthday parties.

I bought the little book from the shop.
In the place where I let my feet slip.

I think of the kind time. Firework’s night. When a stranger bought a comb and brushed the knots from my hair.

‘You’ve missed all the lights’ she said. And I smiled because inside I had found the brightest, most wonderful light.

Maybe she thought it would make me pretty.
Everything becomes smooth and pretty when you fall into the bright light.

I have kept it.
The little purple comb.
It waits in my bag for next time.

I look out the window.

I have moved from the shop with the shiny floors to the place where I drink coffee and pretend to read the paper.

In this place people talk about their shopping and how good the food tastes.

For a moment I know that what I am looking for is in St James.

If I go there I will find him.

As I sit on the hard chair I feel him stroking the tangles from my hair. Easing out the tornado inside. Aiding me into restful sleep.

And I smile.
His hands will lead me to an end.