Homecoming | Riposte
Published by Riposte Magazine, October 2021
It is the middle of a heatwave, and I have just arrived at my mum’s house, having spent one week in hospital. Slightly dazed, I take a seat at the small table in her kitchen where we usually chat over breakfast when I visit, today though words fade on my lips.
For the past few months, I have been at war with my own body. It is a strange phenomenon to feel disconnected from the vessel that carries me, and despite the fact I am on the mend, it hurts to move and think. Listless, I stare blankly out the window, trying to make sense of all that’s happened. Just beyond the glass, the crinkled, crêpe paper petals of Iceland poppies catch my attention. They billow in the sticky summer wind, furred, elegant stems aglow in the evening light.
For as long as I can remember, poppies have been a feature in every one of my mum’s gardens. We moved cross-country a couple of times when I was a kid, from the west coast of England to the east and back again, but poppies of every shape, size and species have always been a permanent fixture, regardless of our location. They are my mum’s favourite flower: little cups of delicate flamboyance that pop up through freshly tilled soil like brightly coloured jack-in-the-boxes. Fragile but resilient, they’re considered symbolic of both death and rebirth.
It has been decided that I will stay with mum until I’m feeling better. This is the longest period of time that we’ve spent together since I was 17, and in many ways, it whisks us right back to that era: mum as primary carer, me as dependent — it’s clear who’s getting the better deal. Back then, I left to go travelling, and I’ve rarely been still since, revelling in my status as a tenant of the world, never really calling anywhere home. But right now, that’s simply not an option, and so rest beckons in place of movement.
At night, the heat is stifling. I throw off the sheets and arrange my limbs like kerplunk sticks so that there’s no skin on skin contact, but sleep remains distant. The seagulls rise with the sun, and every morning their callous screeches echo in the dark around me, cracking open the weaker crevasses of my brain. I wish for the morphine I’d been given in hospital, anything to numb the senses. But in the end, the biggest comfort comes from knowing mum is in the next room.
The days are brighter, and I’m surprised by how easily we fall into a routine. To escape the persistent mugginess, we take foldout chairs to the seaside in hunt of some breeze. Mum packs us a picnic, and we devour chicken rolls made with fresh veggies from the allotment and a secret layer of cheese and onion crisps. We sit. We read. We treat ourselves to ice creams piled high with clotted cream. It is a gentle form of existence. On our drives home, I notice poppies everywhere: bursting from hedgerows intertwined with railings, peaking through the cracks in old brick walls. They blossom in the unlikeliest of places.
One of the most disturbing symptoms of illness was the disappearance of my sense of humour, especially as someone who usually finds even the darkest things funny, so it’s a relief when I feel well enough to laugh again. But as mum points out, it’s impossible not to giggle at someone who’s taken too many sleeping tablets and demolished an entire box of cereal in the middle of the night. And harder still not to howl when the pet dog defecates in your daughter’s Birkenstocks.
We chuckle while poring over old family photos, too, and slowly I piece together snippets of the past where absences once lingered. The picture that emerges is one of much sturdier roots than I’d remembered and a reminder that home is something that exists beyond the physical. It’s an acceptance of vulnerability; a constant presence amid uncertainty.
Around two years ago, I started hiking the South West Coast Path in sections, perhaps as a subconscious means of reconnecting with my background having spent so long away. Mum has dropped me off and picked me up at the start and end of almost every leg so far, and she does the same as I take my first tentative steps back on the trail post-recovery. This time, I set off from Duckpool in Devon, relishing the wind in my face as I snake north towards Hartland Quay.
En route, I stumble across a sturdy hut looking out across the roaring Atlantic and stop for a few minutes to poke around the structure and contemplate this strange period of upheaval. I reach into my rucksack for a drink and discover mum has snuck in extra snacks. Immediately, a lump rises in my throat because she’s with me even when she’s not. And then I pull myself together because no self-respecting adventurer should be crying over a ginger nut biscuit.
Back at home, I dig into the story of the mysterious hut. Turns out it was constructed by the clergyman and poet, Robert Hawker, a man known equally for his eccentricities and penchant for opium. High and inspired by the poppy, he used the bruised and battered timber from shipwrecks to create a cliffside refuge, especially for weary walkers. In a way, it feels like mum and I are doing exactly the same for each other.
