The Homecoming

I awake early. The radio is on. Ever-rolling news. (The chaos of the events unmatched by the neat re-telling.) I roll over, to the east. The artist is not there. Of course. She is in the foothills, though travelling back today, with the little people. I lie on my back and catch up on the news. The stories seem familiar. Some are. I heard them in my sleep. Indeed, in the course of the previous six hours I have probably been around the world five times. I examine the artist’s work on the wall. It will be the first thing she looks at when she arrives. (Mark my words.) Furthermore she will say it needs more work. I shower and shave. I run an errand, and speak on the phone to one of the children, then the artist, who is preparing to leave the foothills. I head into the heart of the capital aware of their imminent journey. Everything in the capital feels relaxed, though I am there to meet a man back briefly from a war-zone. He saunters in to where we are meeting. He bears a relaxed but worldly demeanour. I have seen him each time but one when he has been back. I remember when he first told me he was going out. It is interesting to register the changes, and good to note, in his case, a continued strength and respect for others. Also, you know you are in good company when the brave man plays down the risk, belittles the danger, and talks with humour. We discuss my own possible role in this field - we have had this conversation before - and I am satisfied. I bid goodbye. The sun is on our faces. And I wish him well. He flies back tomorrow. In the morning. My second appointment is with another war-zoner but this one I discover has postponed the meeting for two days. I decide instead, perhaps indulgently, to prepare for the artist and the little people’s arrival by going home and cleaning the flat – we were working hard before the foothills and left it very dirty. Why, I shock myself by buying a mop on the way. Who am I trying to impress? If it is the artist, you would shake your head at some of things I have done in the past in order - you would think – to do the opposite. The first thing I do in the flat is to open all the windows and doors. With basements, the airing of the space is essential. Anyway, when they arrive a few hours later their spirits are high and their appreciation apparent. The artist then looks at her work: ‘It needs more work,’ she says.