I didn’t know I was loving on borrowed time. How could I? They say, when you know, you know. But I’ve never been entirely sure of anything in my life, so why should he be different? He was, though. He was different.
Thursday nights were our nights. I’d meet him on the corner of Holland Road and we’d wander down to the park and sit on the swings, talking and hoping and dreaming and regretting. I shared more of myself with him than I’d ever shared with anyone, even me. I felt more around him, more certain of who I was, who I wanted to be.
One evening, it rained. I half expected him to stay in, but as I turned the corner, there he was, standing beside the road sign, his face tilted up towards the sky, the blur of the rain obscuring his features. I snuck up on him and gave him a fright, and he laughed and took my hands in his and twirled me round and round. We danced for what felt like hours, in the rain, under the yellow glow of the streetlamps. And I noticed for the first time that when he laughed, he bent over slightly, and crinkled his nose and it made me melt right into the puddles at our feet. And when he pressed his lips against mine, the knot in my chest lessened slightly, and I felt lighter than air.
I told him I loved him. He didn’t say it back. And the next Thursday I waited for him on the corner of Holland Road. And the Thursday after. And the one after that. And now every Thursday, I wait for him just the same. Rain or shine, I’m there. Waiting. Hoping. Dreaming. Regretting.
Showing posts with label Holland Road. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holland Road. Show all posts
Thursday, 23 May 2013
Wednesday, 22 May 2013
Holland Road by James D. Irwin
A lot of the fans get it wrong. They think Marco died at the studio on Holland Road. He died in his apartment just up the road. I was the only one there when it happened. I still live on Holland Road--- right opposite the studio. Sometimes I watch the fans come by and leave flowers and stuff. It happens less now, but then the band split back in '74 so it's really a surprise anyone shows up at all. But they do. Mostly it's tourists and die hard fans. Usually on the anniversary.
It's nice though... it's nice to see people leave flowers and it's nice to know the band are still remembered. It's kind of funny though, the way they all come out to grieve for some dead rockstar. It's funny, because if they looked across the street they'd probably see me and realise that Marco isn't dead at all.
It's nice though... it's nice to see people leave flowers and it's nice to know the band are still remembered. It's kind of funny though, the way they all come out to grieve for some dead rockstar. It's funny, because if they looked across the street they'd probably see me and realise that Marco isn't dead at all.
Holland Road by Lesley Whyte
The house is at the end of Holland Road. I pass by the street whenever I head to the newsagents to buy cigarettes. I know, I know, I shouldn't be buying cigarettes. Half the time, I'm going there for something else, I pass by Holland Road, I think about the house at the end and I have this sudden need to fill my body with something more toxic than my thoughts. Smoking is the easiest way to do it. And there's really kind of a poetic...thing to it.
Eleanor died in that house. My beautiful Eleanor with her bright blonde curls and her disgusting incense candles. Her books on French cooking and her hip-hop CDs. She never downloaded a song in her life. I don't think she even knew how to do it. We used to lie on the grassy slope in the back garden and look up at the clouds or the stars or just the clear sky. More often than not, we'd see the trails of aeroplanes and wonder where they were going. We'd make up stories about the people on board and then we'd plan where we would go once university was done and we had jobs that gave us enough money to travel and enough time to do it, too. It was supposed to be the beginning, that ugly old house in Holland Road. The warped windows and doors and the draughts they let in.
And then there was the fire. I wasn't there. By the time I got home, the fire was out. There was nothing but smoke. It filled the streets, it licked the other houses and clawed at my throat. They brought Eleanor out in a body bag. They wouldn't let me see her. They said it was the candles, those disgusting incense candles that she used to burn in every room of the house. They were probably right, it probably was the candles, but I like to think she was cooking. She was trying one of the recipes from one of her hundreds of books about French cooking. The girl couldn't so much as boil water, but she was going to study cooking in Paris. It was a nice thought.
Eleanor died in that house. My beautiful Eleanor with her bright blonde curls and her disgusting incense candles. Her books on French cooking and her hip-hop CDs. She never downloaded a song in her life. I don't think she even knew how to do it. We used to lie on the grassy slope in the back garden and look up at the clouds or the stars or just the clear sky. More often than not, we'd see the trails of aeroplanes and wonder where they were going. We'd make up stories about the people on board and then we'd plan where we would go once university was done and we had jobs that gave us enough money to travel and enough time to do it, too. It was supposed to be the beginning, that ugly old house in Holland Road. The warped windows and doors and the draughts they let in.
And then there was the fire. I wasn't there. By the time I got home, the fire was out. There was nothing but smoke. It filled the streets, it licked the other houses and clawed at my throat. They brought Eleanor out in a body bag. They wouldn't let me see her. They said it was the candles, those disgusting incense candles that she used to burn in every room of the house. They were probably right, it probably was the candles, but I like to think she was cooking. She was trying one of the recipes from one of her hundreds of books about French cooking. The girl couldn't so much as boil water, but she was going to study cooking in Paris. It was a nice thought.
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