Magic

My parents handed me the book called ‘How To Disappear’. It seems they’d been practising for most of their lives and had it more or less right. My mother in particular could dematerialise for quite a long time while I sat self-admonishing and amazed. It was easier for my father, who could not be seen all day behind vans and lorries at the Co-op garage and left the bones but no flesh on his kipper at the tea table.

From them I learned to self-erase before gypsies, anyone posh, commissionaires, waiters and floor walkers. Where the police and insurance men were concerned, it was possible to seem to be there but in fact to be nowhere at all.

I used this ruse to my advantage for most of my life in that I could disappear at will when danger threatened. More’s the pity I eventually forgot how to come back.

My Dad was the first to complete the riskiest vanishing act of all. Then my Mum followed after a few years in which she gradually made herself invisible but would keep coming back as a Cheshire Cat grin.

Now they’re both undetectable by the naked eye. Good trick!

Me, I’m still working on the piece de resistance they so perfected. At the moment I’m absent for a good part of the day. I’ve worked on my insubstantiality with children, old friends, siblings, relatives and anyone who’s done me down.

There’s just you, curse you. You see me and even with smoke and mirrors there’s no escape. You take my hand and I’m there. Such scrutiny I cannot bear. The light’s too bright. The room too vivid.

A lifetime’s work under threat!! This poem is my plot to regain the advantage of not being here. For while you’re reading it, I’ll perform the spell I’ve memorised until you understand this poem had no author, no progenitor, no creator.

Only the wind rushing at the door, the wires strumming, the indifference of the rain.