In Ascension

by Martin MacInnes

Even at the peak of it, the two of us quietly eating our sandwiches on the lawn on a plaid blanket, I couldn’t lose the sense that this was ending, that the more the experience developed, the more I lost it. The closer it got, the quicker it fled. When I sobbed, later, in the station bathroom, my mother holding my head gently in her arms, shushing me and telling me it would be OK, everything would be OK, what was streaming out of me wasn’t, as she might have thought, prompted by a specific fear about returning home to Geert. It was about happiness. The richness of our day had been too much for me. And even now, as I remember the days, the strange, quiet trips to that oddly deserted town, and I picture my mother, her patient, tired smile, the way she carefully adjusted her stride to keep by me, doing this for one reason only – to give me pleasure; to make me feel good; to offer me, for this one day, or this moment, happiness – it’s too much, and I burst into tears, holding my breath where I can to gather in the sound so the others don’t hear me through the walls separating us. I should have been there for her; I wanted to but couldn’t tell her how I felt, and now everything has gone.