Taking the Plunge

 

Taking the Plunge

Self Portrait

By Len Morgan

Dry leaves crackle underfoot as he makes his way up the drive; like walking on eggshells he thinks.  The sun is behind him, casting long shadows through the russet dappled carpet obscuring the path.  There is a glint in the sky; a rapidly decaying vapour trail pointing towards Heathrow Airport.

Angry gusts throw leaves in his face as if berating him for his tardiness.  He pulls up the collar of his heavy overcoat to stave off the chill.  His ears feel the pinch of winter as he reaches for the doorbell, a wreath of holly hangs from the knocker: welcoming.

A jet passes overhead; he gazes up as it traverses the sky, horizon to horizon in ten seconds. A the time it took him to walk from the garden gate to the front door, all of fifteen yards?  In that time the light would travel nineteen million miles.  How far would it travel in seven years, he thinks? That was how long he'd been away. 

Memory is a funny thing.  He could recall the scene in minute detail as if it had only just happened.  His self-righteous indignation, his angry hurtful words, as he threw clothes into his suitcase and slamming the door dramatically as he left. 

Many times he'd wanted to call and say he was sorry and he wanted to come home, but he just couldn't take that final step. 

The girl at the Salvation Army had given him a bowl of warming soup and asked how he'd come to such a low state.  She'd coaxed him into their hostel, and they'd provided him with shoes, clean clothes, and a warm coat, (His case and clothes had been stolen on that first night on the streets).  She'd stood by him as he made the phone call home.  He'd listened to the tearful crying at the other end of the line, no anger or recrimination, just an invitation.

"We love you, Kyle, please come home."

.-...-.

So, here he was, taking the plunge.  He presses the doorbell feels the welcoming rush of warm air as the door opens and he samples the mouth-watering aromas of Christmas.  
He returns the welcoming smile and mirrors the outstretched arms.

"Welcome home my darling."

Their tears are tears of joy...

 

Copyright Len Morgan