Why can’t I go back, go back loaded with experience and ideas, I can see the room I’d land in check the door for movement downstairs maybe I made noise with my feet. I’d see the window and hope for sunshine and catch it throught the mirror on the wardrobe and then double look at myself 15 again, teeshirt, jeans, busted seams, brogues and bitten nails. I’d take my time down the stairs and glimpse mam out in the garden as usual, fixing the swinging soaking clothes, her hair in her eyes, “Where’ve you been? Don’t think I can’t see you!” quietly without saying I’m 39 inside a teenagers body I flash back to painting her gates 2 weeks ago on her 67 birthday, dumbfounded I know it all and can start again in 1985. I flash again when I check the clock in the front room it’s 4.30 and dad will be in at 6, Oxtail soup and Vienna roll, he would gather the crumbs in his palm and devour them, “Didnt i work hard to put that bread on the table” those days are truly gone but this time I’ll try hug him, this time I won’t take the piss, I’ll ask him about his big life day and tell him to drink more water.
He’d be tired but I know how little time we would have and I think if I had the wits and the timing I could tell my mam the situation, say what I felt and try convince her that I knew the truth and that I had seen the future. Silently we watch the telly and I catch her staring at me, “there’s something wrong with that child” sleeping later I wake in a sweat thinking it’s a dream and in the darkness I glance at my sleight, good god, it’s still real.