Wimbledon (Part 2)

Years later, I return.
I am keen to revisit the college and the surrounding countryside; to see whether or not the sounds and smells I associate with that long gone day still linger, hidden to everyone but me.
It is a misty morning, and Autumn is beginning to weave her spell; the leaves turning orange and red; rich and opulent, a chorus of colours.
A few have fallen and crunch under my feet as I walk slowly, breathing in the air, taking my time. The sky is grey and overcast, a stark contrast to the summer sky that illuminated the hours my father and I spent here.
I wander over to the gates of the college and look up at the impressive building, warmed by the sight of the windows that seem all at once familiar and distant, remembering my heartfelt conviction that they had been watching our game with encouragement.
The college is a hive of activity; I can hear the hum of voices coming from within and the energetic shrieks and commands from a game being played outside. I head towards the noises, stumbling a little as I climb onto the grassy bank. My heart begins to beat a little faster; nostalgia overwhelms me quite suddenly and I swallow, hard. I look up and am greeted by the sight of young girls playing netball. The court looks different. Brighter, sharper, more in focus. It is a shape, with angles and lines. I laugh out loud at my absurdity. What was I expecting? My memory of how it looked is so clear and real, but somehow something was altered and distorted – the rigidity was blurred, softened by my love, my dreams. Yet the reality is comforting, shielding that secret, special day with it’s difference and I smile to myself.
I watch the children play, feeling a mixture of emotions. I feel old and young all at once; awkward but happy. There’s nothing quite like childhood, I think. The days seem longer, the seasons change slowly and each one bringing a new excitement, a certain magic. I was aware of time, of change, but eternity still seemed possible.

I shake my head to shift my thoughts and look around me, at the large oak tree that stands unchanged and unaffected. It’s branches still creak, it roots lie buried deep under the ground. I wonder if it recognises me, if it is pleased with how I have turned out. Does it sense my love for it? How the sounds it made were strong in my mind when I closed my eyes and listened?
I have an urge to kiss the tree, so I do. I kiss the trunk lightly, feeling the rough texture against my lips. It smells of damp earth, a pleasant, musty scent. I thank the tree for simply being there. I thank it for not changing.
The day is growing warmer, and I decide to walk up the lane and have a look at my old house. There is a spring in my step and I feel excited, childish. I recognise places I had long forgotten, a small footpath leading to a tiny church, a specific corner I had sat by selling blackberries that I’d picked and the old rusty gate my father had helped me stand on so I could be as tall as him. Soon I am approaching the hamlet, small and cosy, and on my left I see my house. The front door is still shiny and red, the little steps are still covered in moss. I sigh rather loudly. There is not a soul around and I am grateful for the peace whilst I take it all in. I am aware I am indulging myself but I was led here on an impulse and feel quite content, my desire to acknowledge this area of my past, burning and insistent.
I see myself and my father returning from our game of Wimbledon, I see our flushed faces, our smiles. I see my father’s hair is speckled with grey, like an eggshell. I see him pick me up beneath that twilight sky and carry me up those mossy steps. I see the urgency in his embrace, and the way my eyes close as he squeezes me tightly. I see him depart, turning once to wave goodbye, then heading up the lane, until I can see him no more. I watch myself stay standing by the door for a long time. Then I see my mother come outside and she hugs me softly. She leads me inside. I remember her eyes were happy and sad. We ate our dinner together and talked and I loved her more than anyone.
Days with my father were precious because they came to an end. My mother was simply precious.

I see myself going upstairs and getting ready for bed, glowing from the day’s activities.
I am tucked in, and kissed goodnight. My eyes grew heavy, my breathing slowed.
Sleep came, on tiptoed feet, glowing like the sun and trailing dreams. She led the way and, willingly, I followed.