Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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      The taxi driver tuts.

      

      Christopher does not speak for the rest of the journey. We travel in silence. The taxi driver switches on the radio; it crackles, interference. I hear a voice, loud, clear, through the rustles, through the static.

      Jesus: Welcome home, my Nina.

      The taxi driver does not speak.

      I am unsure if my mother knows of my arrival. I suspect that Christopher may have told her. He tells me that he visits her, often.

      

      He tells me that he can do that.

      

      He says that he can be with different people, in different places, at the same time.

      

      He tells me that he is like God, but very different. He tells me that he is like God because God can also be in so many different places at the same time.

      

      I believe in Christopher more than I believe in my Lord.

      The taxi drops us outside of the walls of Valletta. The driver keeps his eyes down as he speaks of the money that I must pay.

      

      I fumble with my purse, with my euros.

      

      The taxi driver does not move from his seat. He presses, something, inside of the car. There is a click. The boot springs open, slightly. The taxi driver waits, in his seat. I struggle with the boot of his car and then with my suitcase.

      

      Christopher has not the strength to help me.

      I wobble with my suitcase.

      

       ~cl – ip.

       ~cl – op.

      across the bumpy pavements.

      

      I am clumsy, I walk.

      I walk through the City Gate and into Valletta, il-Belt.

      

      ~the City.

      

      My heeled knee-length boots feel awkward, clumpy.

      

      The roads and the pathways of my Capital, of Valletta, are uneven. I wobble over them; I am cautious, fearful of falling. Malta could never be smooth, perfect without blemish, there is too much history, there are too many marks, injuries, scars. Today, I am fearful of the cracks swallowing me.

      

      I walk, gracelessly, slowly, as the Renaissance streets open up before me.

      

      I.

      

       ~cl – ip.

       ~cl – op.

      along the side of the road, pulling my suitcase behind me, watching my son lead the way.

      Last time I walked these cobbles I was with Matt and with my five-year-old Christopher. The memory stings. I remember our walking through the City Gate and into Valletta. I remember the blistering warmth. I remember that Christopher was tired, the early morning journey and the high temperature were taking their toll. I remember Christopher was dragging behind us, no hand to hold, no comfort to be found. I remember Christopher asking me why the Opera House was broken. I remember ignoring his question, walking up again, then down again. I remember that it was busy, packed with tourists wearing as few clothes as possible, yet still dripping in sweat. I remember that Christopher moaned with each step. He wanted to go home. I remember that Matt did not complain, that Matt never complained.

      I look up, I feel His spit on my skin. I look to the buildings. They embrace the past, leaning to me, crumbling, neglected. The details speak of disregard, of bombardment.

      

      I turn right, I.

      

       ~cl – ip.

       ~cl – op.

      past the broken down Opera House, up again.

      

      ‘It was bombed,’ I tell Christopher.

      

      ‘I know, Nanna told me.’

      

      He says.

      

      I turn, left, down again. The course is familiar, instinctive, unchanged. I have walked this route before, alone, with others, with my sisters, with my mother, with my father, with cousins, with Matt, with Christopher.

      

      All streets slope down to the harbour.

      It is morning, spitting, cold and busy. Tourists still visit in February.

      

      I bump my suitcase down each of the stone steps, making my way down the slant of the steep street. The roads are narrow, the buildings tower, built to provide shelter from the overpowering heat of the summer. Today they would say that it rains lightly, I would say that my Lord spits, but the narrow streets of my home offer protection, of sorts.

      

      I am wet, cold in my bones, shiver shiver, shiver shiver.

      I reach my mother’s green front door.

       Sebg

a

      ~seven

      Malta’s top 5: About Malta

       * 2. Language

      Spoken by over 360,000 people on and off the Mediterranean islands of Malta and Gozo. Malti is the national language. It is a Semitic language, filled with borrowings from Italian, Arabic and English, written with a Latin script. The co-official languages of the islands are English and Maltese, making Malta an ideal holiday destination for English-speaking tourists.

      I stand on the bumpy pavement facing my mother’s front СКАЧАТЬ