~sp – at.
~sp – it.
~sp – at.
I lift my face up to creation. The sky is grey, sullen, moody.
His rain falls onto me. He spits on my face.
My Lord blesses my soul.
Mer
~welcome.
I walk in my Lord’s spit, following the trail of people, staying in between the yellow guide lines that direct into arrivals. We are close to the terminal, no bus is needed.
I hear the engines thrusting their whirs.
they whirl.
~wh – irrrr.
~wh – irrrr.
~wh – irrrr – llll.
The airport is calm, quiet. I wait for my suitcase to churn around on a conveyor.
I feel a chill. I shiver shiver, shiver shiver.
My bones are cold.
The airport smells of popcorn.
I am hungry; the sweet airport air has increased my need. I cannot remember when I last ate. My stomach churns. I am famished in Malta.
I lug, I wheel my suitcase. I do not collect a metal trolley.
I walk through customs, nothing to declare, I step onto the escalator. I travel down, slowly. I look onto the crowd that stands waiting for people to arrive. My eyes search, in vain.
I walk, I stagger through the crowd and out, into His rain.
I queue for a taxi.
Christopher follows, several steps behind me. He does not speak.
We are in a taxi, going to Valletta, my suitcase is in the boot. It will take twenty-five minutes, I think. We are going to my mother’s house, home. I dwell on the word home.
I long for a home.
I watch through the taxi window; the island rushes, blurs past my eyes with colours, with whites, with greens. The sandstone constructions are greying through the drizzle, they look weary, lost. I watch cars slip and slide past us, some are shiny, promising wealth and importance; they dance in the rain. We travel along a new road, an unknown journey. I search for familiarity, I need familiarity. I could be anywhere, any Mediterranean country, any foreign soil.
I seek acquaintance, for something to connect me to my roots. My eyes rest on golden arches, McDonald’s.
Time has altered my island.
‘John Lennon lives in Malta.’
My son says. I laugh, ha ha ha.
‘Oh Christopher! Who told you that?’ I say.
‘Jesus did.’
My son tells me.
‘I’m hoping to meet with Jesus,’ I say.
The taxi driver looks in his rear-view mirror, his dark eyes meet with mine. I smile at him, I raise one eyebrow. He looks away, quickly, back to the road.
‘Geordie shares Cisk with him in Larry’s bar.’
~Cisk lager was first available in Malta in 1928. It has an alcohol content of 4.2 per cent.
‘Geordie?’ I ask.
‘Elena’s husband.’
‘Elena?’ I ask.
‘Geordie’s a spirtu, a spirit, like me. He’s waiting for Elena to pass over. She’s your mother’s aunt, lives in Newcastle.’
Christopher is right. I recall, the words connect, ignite.
I have heard the stories of Elena, the family shame, the ostracism. She met Geordie, an English soldier in Malta, during the war. The family rejected her union. I do not know the full story. I know only fragments.
‘Geordie told me Jesus sent me back to help with your grief.’
My son breaks my thoughts.
‘Well his plan backfired, didn’t it?’ I say. ‘And I’ll tell him so when I see him.’
The taxi driver tuts.
Christopher does not speak for the rest of the journey. We travel in silence. The taxi driver switches on the radio; it crackles, interference. I hear a voice, loud, clear, through the rustles, through the static.
Jesus: Welcome home, my Nina.
The taxi driver does not speak.
I am unsure if my mother knows of my arrival. I suspect that Christopher may have told her. He tells me that he visits her, often.
He tells me that he can do that.
He says that he can be with different people, in different places, at the same time.
He tells me that he is like God, but very different. He tells me that he is like God because God can also be in so many different places at the same time.
I believe in Christopher more than I believe in my Lord.
The taxi drops us outside of the walls of Valletta. The driver keeps his eyes down as he speaks of the money that I must pay.
I fumble with my purse, with my euros.
The taxi driver does not move from his seat. He presses, something, inside of the car. There is a click. The boot springs open, slightly. The taxi driver waits, in his seat. I struggle with the boot of his car and then with my suitcase.
Christopher has not the strength to help me.
I wobble with my suitcase.
~cl – ip.
~cl – op.
across the bumpy pavements.
I am clumsy, I walk.
I walk through the City Gate and into Valletta, il-Belt.