The Past is Another Planet

Whoever said "The past is another country" was wrong.

The past is another planet. 

When you are rocketed there

 you can't breathe

in the thinness of the air.

You float above a vast terrain

of  living breathing pictures - 

a technicolour movie.

You know the story by heart.

And the ending.

But you can't  reach into it 

or touch 

its solidness and say,

Sorry

or 

Please hold me.

or

Don't leave me.

And then that megaphone

cry 

exits your body,

comes out of your mouth

from the extinct wild animal

trapped there

from that other planet.

And you find yourself 

landed

back on the same 

green carpet

the one that smells of dog,

crouched  there, 

a frozen statue,

at noon

on a cold March morning.

Laid in front of you is

 an open box,

which used to contain your winter boots

and now it holds

the pain of love and memory in

condolence letters

and kind cards

and a copy of  the Order of Service of

your husband's funeral.

And a copy of

  all the words you wrote and spoke for him.

No use to you now.

At the bottom of the pile 

hides

a note from an earlier time

in his handwriting 

in blue biro

telling you he has left a box of those 

'red things' in the fridge - 

he means strawberries 

he picked at the allotment  -

and he will be back home soon.

How can I find the words to say about his man,

a few words to engrave

on a headstone 

set in the earth,

without opening up the treasure box of his life

which resides on

another planet now?

The one where I can't breathe.

So I put on my coat and a letter to post in my pocket, and let the wind whirl me along the street, my shoulders brushed by flurries of white cherry blossom petals and stinging bursts of icy hail stones. And I walk and walk till my face and my hands become as numb as my heart.