Stardust
by Ian C Smith

Up the stairs and into the past, here in the loft-cum-mausoleum we store reminders of happier days we should have thrown out. Some might be op shop potential, others already served time there. A cracked mirror, a toy truck, that exercise machine, still gleam under dust with gadgetry that in another time could have been repaired. Broken aspirations sag in corners, their appeal over. All these shoes suggest victims died and only ascended thus far. A raffia basket looks defeated, unravelled. This terminus could be a stage set for a drama an expectant audience waits to see peeled back, artful angles, secrets and lies, revelations.

Wind-scoured abandoned shells of simple rural houses I have entered alone like a spy fascinate me. The calendar with a now distant day circled, a dead crow on what was once the kitchen floor, crime on yellowed paper, forgotten news I can’t resist reading, modest adverts, prices to die for. And sepulchral silence. That silence, prefacing this stillness here in our loft, is as effective as a trumpet fanfare. I experience feelings like grief, probably self-pity for my oppressive childhood. Now our chair spilling stuffing seems accusatory like a dropped friend. Glimpses of worn-down beauty lurk here, stuck like slights never taken back. I share an impromptu selfie with a grubby grotesquely leering puppet.

Compliant in the banishment of what are usually exiled remnants of happy families that could qualify as historical artefacts of archaeological discovery a millennium in the future, I feel, absurdly, like creaking to my knees begging forgiveness before possible presents of resented Christmases past, but end my rummaging reminiscence to leave for a medical appointment. All those shining plans, now these long goodbyes, this detritus. When I fill in my doctor later with recent small problems with amnesia she asks if I ever forget where I am when driving. I say “Yes,” recalling a sun-bright holiday, “but this was long before I became an unlisted ruin.”

I had emerged from a reverie with geography a blank, no immediate idea of the previous town, or the next, or even what road I travelled, foot down, elbow out the window hot. But I knew I was heading home. The marvel of this. Sensing my doctor exchange looks with the nurse they think are private I suggest surely we all experience such moments. Thinking of that drift from reality to daydream I witter on about swapping whatever bullies our minds: health, debt, loss, for respite, the fantastic luxury, the stardust of carefree subconsciousness before we check back in on grainy ticking afternoons. Preparing my needle, she doesn’t respond, perhaps remembering an almost forgotten trip buoyed by ephemeral joie de vivre.