Love

This morning I stand in my mother’s kitchen: from the window we watch rain burnish apples on bowed branches. She has been expecting this weather, she says. After breakfast, I ride in the back of my parents’ car. In Taiwan, my sister in law sighs, it is too hot. My brother nods. Their suitcases waggle in the boot space. I twist my head to check for Mr, driving behind us.

It’s a long journey from Church Cove to Kaohsiung. We can only accompany them to the ticket barriers of Truro train station. My mother, my stepfather, my brother, my sister in law, my son, my daughter, my granddaughter, my husband and I, exchange tight hugs. We wave, we turn, we break the group.

I keep thinking, my mother says, I’ll see you soon and if I can think that, it’s okay. She lifts her glasses up to smooth tears with her free hand. Hugs are trading well today. Deep breaths draw in rain freshened air.

We drive eastwards on the A30: the clouds ease away from each other, the clouds regroup. Baby frets in the back seat. I hand her my phone; look to the sky, following trails of aeroplanes. They are not in flight yet, I know, but I think of my brother and his wife. I know they will be tired and so far away: I know they are happy together. And if I know that, it is okay.