I used to fly more. I have my routines. I find my seat quickly. That’s what they tell you to do. I clasp my belt. They tell you that, too. I read the safety card, front and back. I follow their guide. I wish my legs would bend backwards or I had more knees that swivelled beneath me. Spiders do that. Don’t they? There’s always a comment. Someone will say, “What’s the weather up in the clouds today?” Not because I’m flying, we are all in the clouds. But my height gets attention. Not our altitude or my attitude. Cruising at 38,000 feet. 38 millipedes: 380 centipedes. Digital brains tell me it’s rare for a centipede to have a hundred legs. But one species of millipede can have more than a thousand legs. That’s a lot of shoes. I have two feet. But I stood five inches over six feet. I’m not sure anymore. Not basketball player height. I know this to be true. I stood next to the Spanish basketball team. I did the same as my vertically challenged friends. I stared up at the players’ shoulders as they towered over me. Their heads scraped the clouds, bobbing disco balls from the ceiling or sky. But from the sky they are bugs.

I must have flown three hundred times, or more. The island to the peninsula, back and forth. Trips to Germland, back and forth. Not my word, that’s what a German friend called her homeland. She died of cancer, too. Not that the two connect. My dad, sister, aunt, and friend died like that. The Krauts, her word again, love meat, cheese, cigarettes and strong syrupy beer. I got warm, smoky hugs from her mother and stepfather. Puffing Lucky Strikes, Marlboro Reds and Wests. We once wrote a short story about a monster called Rosebud. On an old typewriter, taking turns. Clicking and clacking, tapping and tinging. Line by line, an odd memory for sure. The monster of the tale would lure you to meetings under suspicious pretences, hiding its sinister motives. Before stealing your face, your clothes, your senses.

Onto the Grecian isles we travelled. I went there with her—the German girl. Feta, cucumber, tomatoes, and yoghurt. Ouzo and water. I damaged my ear, jumping from a boat called Salaminia. A life sentence for me. I can’t hear ya. And how many times did I cross oceans and seas? The Atlantic, the Indian, the Pacific, Sargasso, Mediterranean. Or the channels, the bays, rivers and gulfs, the glaciers, the salt plains. Another time, I saw Amazon forests, anaconda rivers, deserts of Nazca, mountains of Peru. Now they love their food. I could write essays on Paddington’s land of culinary treats. I could. One day. Not today. But I did not eat marmalade sandwiches.

The jet engine’s hood glared, blue in reality, throwing golden portholes on the wall of the flying can. I know where I am in the sky. The direction in which we travel. I see the points of the compass. North over there, south is behind me, to my right is east, my west is left. Never Eat Shredded Wheat, if you travel clockwise. I have, I do and I will eat shredded wheat again some day. How do you remember the points of the compass? Mnemonics. Nobody Expects Silent Wisdom, but that’s how I find my way.

I can say I once commuted by plane. Like my first cousin, four days older than me, who flew in tin planes and tin whirlybirds every two weeks. Oil and gas was his game. He flew to engineer. I flew to teach. Now I fly to visit my children. Surprise them. Video-call them from their doorstep. Ask them, “Do you know where Dad is?” Wait for the realisation—to see the familiar backdrop. For the eyes to light up. Though I can’t keep up the pretense. I want to squeeze them both tight in my arms. When I had little arms and legs and my voice squeaked, I embraced Midge mouse, so named for Mary, Mungo and Midge. It helped me sleep.

If it wasn’t so threadbare I’d squeeze it now. A clumsy patch-up, my handiwork—squares of mismatched, coloured motifs. Fabric tacked with a rudimentary stitch. I don’t blame our Jack Russell for ripping its ear. Though I screamed at the time. The dog’s sharp teeth piercing the mouse’s yellow belly. Not that Midge mouse was a coward. It stood brave and fierce during the attack and through surgery. It was vicious for a dog named Pippy. That’s what dogs do. That’s what terriers do—even ones with long legs. Though our Pippy didn’t wear stockings. It ate childhood toys. “But don’t eat my daughters,” I said to myself. I squeeze them more than Midge mouse. My children are not toys. But when I was wee, as in little, Midge went everywhere with me. I wish my children went everywhere with me. Was my dog jealous of a little yellow mouse? I told my troubles to the dog. My dating failures, my need for acceptance, my desire for validation. Should I now get a dog? Was a question I asked. But it’s no substitute for a child who hugs back.

It feels strange to return to this house. It’s not the house I grew up in, but a house where I grew. The courage, enough to make a change. The nightmares helped me see. I thought I saw my spiders’ shadows in the bathroom. One came from Peru. If you’ve read anything I’ve written you’ll know about the spiders. Some of them were long-legged. I’m long-legged. Jo hid spiders for Halloween. Plastic ones, that look real from a distance. She frightened Emma, placing several beneath her bed covers. Oh, she screamed and bellowed, not fond of pranks. But that’s what sisters do for laughs.

Beneath the furniture live a colony of dusty rabbits. Not Peter, Flopsy, Mopsy, or Cottontail. These Leporidae collect and hoard. “Don’t blame me next time a sock goes missing!” That’s the washing machine speaking. Six sock halves, various colours and designs: the bunnies kept busy. A list of items I found in their burrow: a digital thermometer, a stitch unpicker, tweezers, and a penny. An eraser, a bank card, and an uncracked Christmas cracker. A sewing machine instruction manual, and several sweet wrappers. I reclaimed them all. Evicted the bunnies. That sounds cruel, but they were only in my head.

While in the house, I turned the rug, sluiced oil from the hood filters, and machine-sucked the dust. In the garden, I lopped back the summer growth and gathered chokeberries. I made crumble with apples and berries, soup of potatoes and leeks, and pork chops with orange and ginger. Roast beast and trimmings and French toast. Not at the same time. Every day I touched my toes 600 times to check they were there. Over 10 days, that’s 6,000 times. I hung pumpkin lights that refused to turn off. Was that their gimmick? Haunted lanterns or faulty wires?

I made myself at home. Though I was a guest, and I can leave when I want. But it’s full of my things. Things that I bought when I lived here. Things that I bought when I left. Things that I chose. It’s a little sad. But things aren’t important. My daughters are. I cleaned for them, my reward their hearts. My ears whistle—not a jolly tune or sad song. An anxiety alarm, a leap from a boat. A sign that my time here was close to done. Nobody expects silent wisdom, but it follows me.

My plants are alive, though straggly and limp. They need fresh soil, a little more water, like me. When I get my fresh earth, and am watered more often, will I thrive, grow tall once more and touch the skies? Open my wings and fly again. New pastures, new adventures, but until then, I must tend my garden.

My girls smiled.

I will take two more tin planes. Skirt the Baltic, jump the North Sea, follow the Channel, skip down to Londinium. Then up again in a second tin bird. Across the Channel, and the Bay of Biscay, Porto, Cadiz. Then push out, cutting corners off the blue Atlantic, onto the islands. I will fly for a whole day. Will I see the Atlas comet? Or is it an interstellar ship to take me home again? I’m in group seven. Don’t ask me why. But I’m curious to know. Do I get a window or aisle seat? The airline threatened me, “The middle seat is yours!” Wanting me to fork out more cash for my journey. They won’t let me check in early—assigned seating costs more. Fate will decide. Choosing a seat costs dollars for sure.

The spider believes I am trapped in her web forevermore. She’s my adopted third daughter, as her grandmother calls her. Some spiders catch flies. The big brutes eat birds. But I am a bird—a freebird. I sing the song in my head. Air guitar the solo, bang my head. Unbroken. My wings still work. I won’t let her eat me.

I can leave when I want. Everything changes. Nothing holds still, not even love. We orbit, drift, return, depart. Always moving, never lost. Nobody expects silent wisdom.

When someone says never change, it means stay true to who you are. Not that you can never change who you are, but whatever changes you make, do so with your integrity intact. I remember a student. A wonderful person who despite everything overcame everything. He was a she. I hope he keeps wearing 18th-century smocks, keikogi, kimonos and yukatas. And keeps alive ancient Japanese sword and stick arts. He taught me about kintsugi. Fixing things with gold. We should all follow his example and be who we are, not pretending to others, to ourselves.

Tziporah, Zipporah, Sephora, it’s funny, words change, too. Not the biblical wife of Moses. Not a little bird. That’s where we go—Sephora. I suggested a gothic museum, or a contemporary gallery, but it wasn’t about me. No oil paint, no cool marble, not a whisper, not a hush. A riot. Scented chaos. My daughters’ faces shone neon pink, gold, reflected in a thousand mirrors. Emma’s nose pressed to glass. Jo’s fingers smudged, plotting both. Noise. Heat. Perfume atomisers hiss—vanilla, coconut, bergamot, cherry cola, saffron, coffee. Green apple, burnt sugar, ozone, candy floss. Birthday cake, leather, smoke and sweat. Peach, cucumber-melon, ginger-lime, peppermint, and almond. Marshmallow, caramel, pomegranate. Dust, money, clay, old newspaper, dogwood, fake snow, new Barbie, cold iron—so many flavours. Dress it up in colours, loud and gay—as in happy. Overwhelmed? Yes. So am I.

Hallow’s Eve, two days gone. Shop girls and boys cracked smiles that hurt. White faces, red, black, blue lips, spiderweb lashes, third eyes painted on. Make-up bleeding. Too busy. Too bright. Too loud. Jo tugs my sleeve. Emma shoves a palette at my nose. What I would give to be there now.

“Look, Dad!”


”Smell this one, Dad!”


“Can I help you find anything?”—but nobody hears the Sephora girl.

“Can I do my hair?” my third daughter questions me. She looks ever hopeful. It’s not that I don’t care. I smile in return, lose myself in the crowd, lurk by the door, security stares. But I won’t help out.

I cannot comprehend this Aladdin’s cave. I search for the spirit’s lamp. But it’s not there. Thousands of creams, lotions, potions, serums, masks, exfoliants, and toners. Oils, scrubs, cleansers, peels, plumpers, zappers, shapers, shimmers, balms, sticks, and gels. Mists, mattifiers, highlighters, bronzers, correctors, fixers, blurs, glitters, glosses. Jo bought Hope. Soft pinch dewy liquid blush. She could have gone for Happy, Grateful, or Spirited.

Advent calendars, boxes of delights, the countdown to Christmas begins tonight. Giant, gold, thousands of crowns. All for a scent, a shimmer, a promise. One cream is mango. One is lemon. One is glacier water, one is dragon fruit, one is snail slime, one is rosehip, one is cactus, one is unicorn tears. I swear they invent flavours to see if we’ll notice.

Outside, Swedish fall almost gone, winter in the wings. Half-moon in mist. A church spire. The market hall. Black birds caw, bus brakes squeal, tram wires fizz, city breathes damp and raw. I take a deep breath. Emma and I take pictures of the moon.

Ten days and nights, and I remember why I can’t be here for them every day. At least not right now. Care is an act of faith. Soup, lights, a patch on a toy. Small rituals that say, I was here. Love is the quiet work of tending—distance does not erase it.

But I will miss Christmas.

Östermalmstorget, exclusive boutiques, eateries and lights. Gucci, Prada, Chanel—not for me. I do it. For them. Because their eyes shine. I follow my eldest, she’s capable with maps, to a joint that serves burgers and fries. The name is a hoot, the décor graffiti, industrial chic to boot. Huddled about a glowing digital menu. A science fiction future with rocketing expenses. I don’t see the tally until the look of surprise. “Did you spend a thousand crowns on burgers and fries?” But for one Kodak moment, a snap I’ll take with me. Seeing the looks on their faces, hearing the joy in their voices. Animal noises, not piggish, but the chance to pig out. Not artisanal, not vegan, not curated, barring blueberry sauces. Grease, cheese, onions, ketchup, pickles, and bacon. Fries, salt, sticky tables, laughter, shriek, bite, napkin, spill, slurp, burp, happy. Illegitimate, but not illegal.

I whispered in their ears as I wished them goodnight, “I wish I could live down the road again.” I’d grasp that thought and shiver.

The pain of leaving my children again. I measure distance in heartbeats, not miles. The shape of their heads as I hold them so tight, the weight of goodbyes. Each time, I tell myself it will get easier. It doesn’t. I’m empty the moment I go. I leave pieces of myself behind, scattered in their laughter, their bedrooms, their small, sticky fingerprints.

I make it quick, like ripping off a plaster. I exit the house with a kick in my step—a spring implies I’m happy. The sun makes waves as navy turns to eggshell blue. Past Volvo car dealerships, empty gas station forecourts, and green storage units. The taxi hums. Pine fragrance. I sit silent. Ten days gone. I must return. I head to meet the first tin bird. A curl of headlamps burn on full beam stretching for miles, too many to count. “Glad they’re not going my way,” I sigh aloud. Driving towards the heart of the city. Volvos, Teslas, and hybrids thread through white birch ghosts in silhouetted woods. My way is clear. Dawn approaches. Fields of cars, downy grass, and woods. We left the countryside, into the suburbs of tin bird city—a kind of cloud cuckoo land. My stomach rumbled. I bought a book. Through control in a flash. Before I could say it, I boarded my ride. Ate, slept, ate again, slept again. And read—Jean Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight. But it’s not nighttime. Nor do I work as a shop girl or mannequin. I speak English and Spanish and some phrasebook German and French. “Reich mir die Butter, bitte.” “Ouvrez la fenêtre.” I’m reminded of a hot bus ride to Toulouse. The return journey was better. I made friends with a girl. But I never saw her again. During a fortnight in the south of France, I prepared stir-fry vegetables for my hosts and friends. “Je voudrais un demi-kilo de carottes, s’il vous plaît.” My gut twisted as I asked for sesame oil. “De l’huile de sésame, s’il vous plaît.” The shopkeeper corrected me with a smile.

Jean Rhys understood exile. Sasha Jansen, her protagonist knew. The ache of being nowhere and everywhere at once. Good Morning, Midnight isn’t about mornings or midnights—it’s about the liminal. That’s where I live now. Between my daughters and my mother. Between leaving and returning. Between the earth and the sky. Crack open the Luminal—Sasha’s little helpers—barbiturates. That’s one way to shut out the pain. I don’t want to forget. I noted the similarities to my life. She orders her daily life into “small bundles,” a repetitive round of meals, drinks, and sleep, underlining her precarious state of being.

We bank with a whoosh—I make the sound in my head. We level out with a thrum, then bank again, this time to the left. Coming in to land. I spot a fat, military grey whale bird squatting on the runway, waiting its turn to flap its steel wings. I’m not a spy. I’ve skipped a beat, made it through passport control again. The duty-free run, a steeplechase race, bends like a snake. It doesn’t want me to go home. I don’t know where its head is at or mine. Still, it leads me where I need to go. But first, I must look at shelves of fancy booze, perfume, and chocolates.

“Try this one, sir! It’s new—cedarwood and bergamot,” a shop girl says, stepping into my path. She sprays a fine mist into the air like a net. Another one joins her: “Or this—cherry blossom and musk. Perfect for someone special.”

Chanel, Dior, Jean Paul Gaultier gang up. Attempting to hook my nostrils or eyes, but I avert my gaze and refuse to inhale. The snake forces me to walk its winding back. It’s not yellow-brick, but it’s long. I weave and cut, thrusting an imaginary sabre, slicing through holidaymakers and business people. “Get out of my way,” I mutter in English beneath my tongue. “En garde!” “Riposte!” “Feel my blade!”

I float through the terminal, walking on air. I eat again. Buy two more books: H.G. Wells, War of the Worlds, and Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller.

I have my routines. I read the signs. Not astrological. Not visual cues. “Fasten seat belt while seated.” “Life vest in panel above your head.” I follow the mandatory speech, word for word, eyes wide open, smiling ear to ear. In case this one’s different. “In the event of decompression, oxygen masks will drop from the panel above you. Pull the mask towards you, place it over your nose and mouth, and secure it with the elastic band. Adults travelling with young children, please attend to your own mask first.” The steward is pretty, but needs oxygen. Red in the face like she hasn’t been sleeping. I need oxygen, too. My brain complains because they don’t do as they’re told. “Why don’t the others listen to the stewards?” “Why don’t the others read the safety instructions?” I say. I look for the nearest exit, rehearse my escape route, examine locking mechanisms. The nearest one could be behind you. How would you know if you didn’t look? I don’t ever want to find out if the life vest floats. Would the red toggle inflate the vest? Would its blinking light attract attention? My heart hurts because I’ve left my children behind again.

England is a chaotic patchwork of brown and green. Though some sickly fields and ponds glint with golden sun. Is England sick? I can see all the forms of clouds and I list them in my head. Nimbostratus, cumulus, stratus, and stratocumulus. We dogleg out across the south coast. An island with two bites taken out somewhere en route. Guernsey, Sark, or Île de Bréhat? I’ll look it up later on my return. I couldn’t find my mysterious island. Did it exist? Was I asleep? I dip in and out of a swaying sleep. Masking the chatter of my bird neighbours. The Asian family tap, tap, tapping at a smart screen seated in the row in front of me. Their seats vibrate and knock my knees. I can’t bend them further. The aches and groans of the plane’s whirling, wheezing belly.

Will-o’-the-wisp clouds over Spanish plains. Is that the Sierra de Nevada, Seville or Huelva? Hot golden Cadiz sand marks the boundary. The bird shakes with turbulence. Thousands of bug wind turbines spinning far below. Modern windmills like tiny white spiders or Second World War white-washed wooden battlements. And then blue Atlantic. I can’t tell where the ocean ends and the sky begins. The bird rumbles as it rides the waves. I rumble. But I am not hungry. We stretch for Africa—the moon follows me from a perfect blue sky, hovering over dense white cover. It’s in the east. We fly due south, but we’ll kick to the south-west before we spy land again. Are they white waves, or fluffy clouds, or birds? I can’t tell. But the further I get from my children the numbness in my chest subsides. The sun is losing strength, casting water vapour rainbows on the east horizon. I cannot see the distinction. It’s rather pretty.

Stowed tray tables, lowered arm rests. Raised window blinds. Cheeks numbed. We bounced and skidded into land a little ahead of schedule. Sometimes the visitors clap.

“I’m not asleep. I’m resting my eyes.” A slogan my daughters say. An hour time difference makes this a long day. I’m glad I can help my mother. But my children. Who will help them? Do they need me anymore? Dark mountains greet me. Not Mordor, but home, for now. Explosions of mist condense. I sigh. I follow streams. I’ll get where I need to be. “Trust the process,” the gurus say.

Understanding where my head is at comes quietly. Unnoticed. Unappreciated by others. It guides me nonetheless.

I fly because I must. I leave because I love. They love me—I’m sure.

Distance is a kind of devotion. Love is heavy. Wings are light.

Nobody expects silent wisdom to speak so loud. Or hold both at once. I can leave when I want.