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A Rendezvous with Forgotten Years Driving off the ferryboat a group of blind people, dressed Brazilian jute sacks still smelling of coffee beans, banged on the bonnet of my car demanding eyes so they could see the many shades of seasons. I threw them a handful of eyes and they fought amongst themselves, hands flailing wildly in the air naked feet trampling about in mud squashing them in the process. Drove through a town full of coloured lights where angry people celebrated Christmas by breaking shop windows, tossing back gifts given by relatives they didn’t like. At home my uncle sat in an armchair drinking lager politely got up and left, quite rightly, he has been dead for twenty years. A little girl, in a sweet Dutch national costume, asked if she could climb up to the shiny star on top of the Christmas tree? Sure! She did and disappeared. Her mother came, cried bitterly looking for a daughter she hadn’t seen since leaving the maternity clinic three years ago. On a green plastic table lay a sweaty goat cheese, hungry I cut a piece it tasted of damp wool and reeked like car tyres after a high speed collision. The crying, young woman was my mother before I was born, didn’t recognise me told me to leave since I had no business being here… yet. Driving back through the town, to catch the ferry, black horses galloped through empty streets and by the docks a lone harbour light kept flinging itself senselessly into a stygian sea. Written February 22nd, 2002 © on Feb 21 2002 10:16 PM PST   0 • 1