A classroom, full of mess and clamour. A school, painted tarmac fading, stumps of trees and memories of their leaves. A village, overshadowed by sprawling towns, clinging to its patch of green, only ever described as “oh, it's near Winchester”. A country, teeming with possibilities, for those who have courage (or luck?), the roar of a million souls, their lives intertwined with no space for me. A world. And hope, that somewhere within it is a place I can call home.
Sunlight streams in through the window, illuminating a figure sat at a desk. Carefully, they extract a battered lanyard from their pocket, flecks of mud still visible on the worn key card. With a sort of reverence, they remove the card from its holder, examining it in the light one last time.
The person on the card looks tired. They fidget with the recorder round their neck, eyes worriedly peering past the camera. There is nothing extraordinary about them, just another drop in the ocean of millions, doing their best to survive, to find their place in the world. But finally, they could stop.
“Time to rest,” they murmur, as they lower the card, “I won’t forget you.”
The face on the card seems to smile back as it disappears into an envelope. A moment’s pause, before the figure finds a pen and scribbles on a label: “LA MOUR D ALEX”.
A drawer slides open. The envelope floats down, feather-like as it settles on the bottom. And with a gentle finality, the drawer clicks shut.
The figure sits back in the chair, eyes closing for a moment, free for the first time. They look back down to the desk, where a brand new card sits, reading “RENN ANDERSENS, CO-MAYOR”. With a smile, they slide it into their lanyard. And it fits perfectly.
An office, full of files and paperwork. A town square, graffiti fading, clumps of chairs and memories of leavers. A town, tucked away in its nook, a flourishing patch of green, so much more than just “oh, it’s near NNYC”. A country, brimming with possibilities, for those who have courage (and luck), the voices of a myriad of friends, their threads weaving a blanket for me. A world. And bliss, that here within it is a place I can call home.
By Ben C.