Grief
The Town Hall Steps
by Beth Parker
It has been thirteen years.
Yet.
Each time I return to the town in which we grew up. The town in which I would walk past him. I would break my neck to swoon his way for as long as possible without him noticing, (he always noticed). The town in which we shared our first kiss. The town where we would meet on the Town Hall steps. The town in which we found out that we were going to have our baby. The town in which I first injected heroin. The town in which he died. There still remains a part of my delusional thinking that maybe I will see him.
Today I am one hundred miles away from that town. Today I left my desk at lunch. I go to pay my council tax at the old Town Hall. Today I stand with impatience. I huff and puff in the tedium.
I urge some movement so that we can all get back to work.
Today my phone startles me. Its volume is embarrassing. Today I left the queue. I hope nobody notices my small frame manoeuvring through the line of awaiting customers.
Today is the day that I receive the call. The call that part of me had always been expecting. I pull the phone away from my ear: “Is it true?” she asked.
“Is what true?”
“That he’s dead?”
I asked her if she had spoken to your Mum. She had not.
Maybe it was a rumor. Maybe whoever had informed your ex-wife, well, they got it wrong. Sometimes that happens. Perhaps she was being facetious. She was inclined to tell lies. Maybe this had all been one big misunderstanding.
“I’ll call his Mum.”
Before I was out of the old Town Hall, the phone rang twice, and the voice on the other end was one of his sisters.
His Mum lived alone.
“Yes, Beth. It’s true. He passed away in the night. I’m so sorry.”
My heart bolted up through my throat. I saw it land on the concrete. I watched it throb. The phone slipped from my hand.
I fell.
As the bones left my body, I crumbled.
Everything abandoned me.
I have never felt more alone.
I have never felt more alone than in that moment.
I have never felt more alone than in that moment on the steps of the Old Town Hall.
People were walking by me, unaware of the terrible, tragic news. Folk drifting by, staring at me in the dazed and confused heap of a boneless body on the steps of the old Town Hall.
I remained absent for some time.
I couldn’t tell you how long I stayed slumped there.
Slowly ascending back from somewhere, two Mums from the school whooshed over to pick up my bones, to straighten me out.
Angels.
They guided a shell back to my office.
Work sent me home.
I called my Mum.
I collected our daughter from school.
Your funeral. One hundred miles away. The town in which we grew up. The town where we shared our first kiss. The town where we would meet on the steps of the Town Hall. The town where you died. It was a beautifully sad day.
You used to joke that if you died, you would come back to haunt me.
It has been thirteen years.
Yet.
I’m still waiting to see you.
About the Author
Since 2019, Beth has written and performed her poetry at various open mic nights in Nottingham. She has headlined for Poetry Scum and Spraybox events in the city. Beth is currently studying for her Masters Degree in Creative Writing at The University of Lincoln, she hopes to have completed her memoir on finishing the course. Beth is passionate about supporting people in their recovery from substance use, her work reflects this.
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