Like Bees to Honey. Caroline Smailes

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СКАЧАТЬ my breath. I think of a childhood that was filled with laughter, with noise, with warmth.

      

      I listen, the sounds are unfamiliar. Doors slamming, footsteps, muffled radio, rain.

      

      I think of my sisters, Maria and Sandra, and of how we would play il-passju.

      

      ~hopscotch.

      

      We would draw onto the pavement and curse the slope. The slope would ruin, make the game almost impossible, but still we would play. I look to the pavement, searching for chalk lines, for remnants of my past.

      

      I think of noli.

      

      ~hide and seek.

      

      I think of bo

i.

      ~marbles.

      

      I long for this home, for my mother’s house, behind a green front door in Valletta.

      I knock.

      

       ~kn – o – ck.

       ~kn – o – ck.

      on the green front door.

      

      I long to see marble, rich embellishments, beautiful paintings, elaborate chandeliers. I know what I expect to see.

      

      No one answers.

      

      I knock.

      

       ~kn – o – ck.

       ~kn – o – ck.

      again, louder.

      

      No one answers.

      

      My eyes begin to focus, to notice. I look up to the balconies, there are two. The house towers, leans forward, slightly. The wooden balconies look as though they will crumble with a gust of wind. I look to the façade, discoloured, flaking plaster, cracks. I look to the green front door, weathered, drained of colour. There is a rusted padlock, a tarnished chain, to keep those in.

      

      I need to be inside.

      

      It is Christopher’s idea.

      

      Of course he has been near to me the whole time. I was not really focusing on him; he was probably behind me, in front of me, over me. I do not really know.

      

      ‘Don’t worry, Mama, I know how to get in.’

      

      He tells me.

      

      ‘You do?’ I ask.

      

      ‘Of course, through a cracked window in the basement. Nanna told me. Tilly broke the window.’

      

      He says.

      

      ‘Tilly?’ I ask.

      

      ‘The

ares.’

      ~ghost, usually the protector of a house but may become resentful.

      

      And so, Christopher slips through the crack and into my mother’s house.

      

      I hear a key turning.

      

      and a.

      

       ~cl – unk.

      as the barrel revolves.

      

      The chain and padlock come undone.

      

      I hear the chain clunk.

      

       ~cl – unk.

       ~cl – unk.

      to the floor.

      

      And then it is gone.

      

      I cannot explain where it has gone; only that it no longer keeps those in, those out.

      I walk into my mother’s house, dragging my suitcase over debris. My eyes begin to adjust. I see through the dust and the rubble and the rubbish. The smell hits me, decaying, riddled.

      

      I stop. I begin to hold my breath, to count, in Maltese.

      

      I close my eyes.

      

      Wie

ed, tnejn, tlieta, erbga, amsa.

      ~one, two, three, four, five.

      

      I open my eyes.

      

      My eyes transform the tumbled ceilings, the broken banisters and within moments I am standing in my mother’s hallway. A grand sweeping staircase is on my right. A wooden coat stand, garnished with elaborate carvings, is to my left. I take off my shawl. I drape it onto the stand, next to my mother’s lace СКАЧАТЬ