Chapter 21
Getting back from Greece was difficult for me. Going from a sunny country, hopelessly in love, back to London, where reality hits me like a ton of bricks. On my bed is a pile of mail I’ve received since I’ve been gone. I skim read most of them and then I get one from London Poets Magazine; I open it up to the most recent edition of their magazine. I skip through the pages and get onto the ‘Upcoming Poets’ spread, moving my finger down the page, and then I see mine. There’s my poem, with my name. I smile to myself, and cut out the poem carefully. I stick it up carefully above my desk, and stare at it for a little. The little compliments on your work always give you hope your writing could be good. My mum gently knocks on the door, popping her head around.
“Hi darling, you okay?”
I nod, waving at her to come over to me.
“Look, I got my poem in a magazine.”
I point to my poem on the wall, and my mum reads it, hand on her chest.
“That is so beautiful Ophelia, I wish you’d write more.”
Maybe this was the push I needed. I have written so many poems it could probably fill up ten books. Sure, some aren’t the greatest, but some are okay, some just need some editing. My mum places a kiss on my head and rubs my back, her hand warm and comforting. She walks out, leaving the door ajar. I open up my laptop, opening a blank document and stare at it, my fingers hovering over
BEYOND THE BLUES
the keyboard. Then I write, I write everything that comes to my mind and after a few hours I have poems. Certainly rough, and some, if not most, won’t make the cut, but it’s a start.
Every time my imposter syndrome came creeping up behind me telling me I can’t do it or my writing sucks, I looked up my poem in the magazine. If they liked it enough to put it in their magazine, one day someone else will like it enough to buy my book.
The sky darkens, and my room is only lit by my laptop screen. I don’t think I’ve ever written so much. I shut my laptop and move over to my bed, spreading out across it.
“Dinner!”
my mum shouts from downstairs. Exhausted, I crawl out of my bed with a huff. I skip down the stairs, the smell of mum’s lasagna wafting up the stairs. I’ve missed my mum’s food. Althea’s food was almost as good as my mum’s. I sit down at the table, my dad filling out a crossword in a newspaper, shovelling the lasagna in his mouth. My mum sits by her plate, patiently waiting for me to sit down so she can start eating.
“It’s so lovely to have you back home, Ophelia.”
Mum says, tucking into her dish.
“It’s good to be home. I wrote a lot today!”
“That’s amazing! That’s good, isn’t it, love!?”
My mum nudges my dad, disrupting his concentration.
“Yeah, that’s great!”
My dad looks up for one second before looking down at his paper again. Me and mum chuckle with each other at my dad, because we both know he has no clue what we were talking about. We finish dinner, catching up on our time again and all the town gossip. I finish up my dinner, placing my plate into the dishwasher, grabbing my nightly iced water and go to walk upstairs.
“Ophelia.”
My dad says, still sitting at the table doing his crossword. “Yeah?”
“Finish that book for Coco.”
he says, smiling at me.
I nod and head upstairs, closing my bedroom door behind me, flipping off
*
my switch and taking my laptop with me into bed. I keep writing more and more, my fingers turning into a blur as I’m typing frantically. My eyes feel heavy and the screen is just turning into a fog.
“Darling?”
My mum comes into my room, jolting me awake. My laptop screen turned off, and I had scattered all my notes all over the place.
“Oh, I must’ve fallen asleep.”
I go to get up and my mum comes hurrying over.
“You stay there. Let me tuck you in.”
“But Mum, I’m an adult. I don’t need tucking in.” I argue.
“I want to. I miss it.”
And so I let her. She takes off my laptop from my lap, and places it on my desk, shutting down the laptop properly. My mum always insisted on closing down my laptop properly, or I’d break it. She collects my notes, placing them on top of my laptop, more neatly than I would.
“Head up.”
My mum says. I lift my head, and she takes the pillow from beneath my head and fluffs it up like a cloud. It makes all the difference, and I can never fluff a pillow quite like her. I lie down and my head sinks into it. Then she tucks the duvet into my sides, and the warm feeling of safety fills me, just like when I was younger. My mum sits on the edge of my bed and strokes my face gently.
“I love you, my baby.”
Her voice is soft.
“I love you mama.”
“I love you more.” She adds.
“I love you most.”
“Never.”
She smiles at me, placing a kiss on my forehead. As if a sleeping pill, I fall to sleep almost instantly, my head for once not running around with thoughts and instead I’m thinking about my book, my wonderful family, the good things in life.