Calling

Taking the first steps into the night, the full force of winter hits her in the face. Instinctively she reaches up, cupping her nose and mouth with a soft cushion of wool. Warm air floods into her hands, creating a pocket of heat, providing relief from the sting of a Yorkshire December. She pulls her hood up over her head, feels the cold metal as the zip travels up, cocooning her further, holding her together.

Almost at the corner now, passing sleeping buildings, each containing a silent world. Past sanctuaries of calm, where shouts and whispers, music and tears, arguments and laughter, beeps and footsteps have all died away, have all faded with the sun. Silence is audible as each home settles into darkness, as diurnal beings take their rest, allow their brain and muscles to recharge, to reset.

She steps on, toes beginning to feel the temperature, fingers now positioned securely in her pockets, nose nestled into the comfort of a warm coat. Passing the school, colours and sounds flood her mind. She remembers her first day, shy, just five years old. Her mother had woven her hair into two neat plaits, working softly, explaining how school worked, where to find her lunch, who would show her the toilets. She recalled arriving, fresh face reflected in shiny black shoes, butterflies dancing inside, a smile hiding her anxious thoughts. She would never forget the feeling as someone, she didn’t even remember who it was anymore, told her that her schoolbag was “for babies.” She stuffed that feeling away in her chest of emotions, jammed in with all the other uncomfortable feelings, locked, bolted, waiting.

Shoulders hunched lower now, she marches past the bus stop, memories rush over, of food being flung across bus aisles, pens and pencils being emptied from their case, hair being pulled, tears being held back behind set jaw. She feels the warmth of her mother’s arms, at the end of each day, circling her, cocooning her body, fingers smoothing out her hair. Ears full of glorious whispers, of assurances of the beauty of her being, her power. Refuelled, she battled on, fighting jeers with patience, derision with grace. She shakes her head, throwing off the images, squeezing her eyes, until every last grinning face has faded from view. It didn’t matter anymore. It was all too late.

Houses appear sporadically now, spaces of green, interrupted briefly by red brick, nature’s wild roaming occasionally broken by human restriction. Blood flow increasing momentum, body feeling warmer, she picks up her pace, focussed on her goal. She is almost there.

The salty smell greets her like an old friend. During those endless years she would often come and sit up here, staring out at the vast North Sea, watching as waves lovingly stroked the faces of the cliffs, or lashed against them in a fit of rage. Toes dug into the soft grass, she would spend hours, time passing, long summer evenings sliding over her unconscious mind, until the dying light reminded her that another day was about to expire.

Out on the cliff top, no one could judge her, no one could tell her she was nerdy, awkward, motherless, a loser, a drip. The fulmars, herring gulls, kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, and puffins, busily setting up homes, breeding, perpetuating their line in a frenzy of feeding, nurturing, fledging. Gannets diving deep into the water, hitting in a perfect vertical plunge, resurfacing with a haul of fish, delivering it to their chicks, securing their future. Kittiwakes, gently skim the surface of the sea, scooping up what they can find, doing what they can for the survival of their fledglings.

In winter months, as chicks fly the nest, as the cliff face becomes quieter once again, she bundled up in layers of wool and polyurethane, knees meeting chest, toes ensconced in fleece-lined boots, torch in hand, guiding her way home, long after ramblers and birdwatchers had melted back into cosy homes.

Tonight, the darkness was comfort. She always knew she wanted to finish off here. This earth which had absorbed her thoughts, her dream, her tears. This cliff, ever strong, steady, unmoving would hold her again, take her into its expanse, hug her tight until she could feel warm. There are no more tears, there is no more feeling. The cold insinuates itself into her body, until her nose, toes, and heart, are numb.

She pauses at the edge, hearing a sound in the trees. She stops, turning, recognising the familiar screech. She listens, quietly as an owl, somewhere in the wood, calls out. Short, beautiful, shrill, shrieks, the sound travelling out into the night sky, bouncing off the trees, resting, and starting up again. The owl who has lived out its time in the very place she stands, who has used the branches of the tress to house its young, who has made the journey countless times to bring sustenance for its young. This owl flies on, calls on, keeps on.

Bathed by the sound, calm falls around her, peace enfolds her, her mind settles. Turning, she makes for home.