Autumnal Guest

I came home in the autumn to find a guest at my table.

The light warmth of the ambrosia sun was seeping,
In through the window cracks with the pertinence of honey dew.
The perpetual red sunset of the autumnal sky fading but not gone,
In the hours when night falls early but slowly,
As if haunted by an indifferent indecisiveness regarding the time of day,
My erstwhile companion was waiting for me at the table,
Dressed in a pale beige coat with a red plaid shirt beneath,
Wearing gold rimmed glasses with lenses cut of rose quartz he smiled,
And beckoned me in,
And asked me to sit.

Nostalgia asked me if I wanted perhaps a drink,
Reaching into a cotton carrier bag as he did so.
I thought I wanted whisky, but he smiled knowingly and shook his head,
And informed me, correctly, that I wanted a glass of red wine and a shot of vodka,
He poured both drinks, one of each for the pair of us, and reclined easily in his chair.
I started on the wine, which was fine but cheap and strong,
Which I of course related to him pleasantly, bringing a smile to his weathered lips,
And he spoke of my mother, and how she grinned in the kitchen with such glasses as these in hand,
How in the cold of winter the heat of the radiator, the drink and the stews had permeated the house,
How in the summer I sat with her in the garden or the expansive front room,
On the warm red rug would rest the bottle and two friends,
Invariably one of mine and one of hers, I laughed along with Nostalgia as he spoke.

He asked if I wanted music, and I told him I did,
I thought I wanted to hear Mischief Brew, the latest band to take my fancy,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to hear The Shins again, since I knew all the words.
With the wine down to the bottom he refilled my glass from a different bottle,
And set another glass down filled with some deeper red, familiar in scent and shading,
So I took it from him and drunk it again as I listened to him talk once more.

He told me how the deep red and the faint hint of foulness in its taste beautifully contradicted the sweetness of the songs,
And I could not help but agree as he elabourated.
He spoke this time of two headstrong lads, intoxicated on an endless possibility of youth,
He spoke of the reckless glee of testosterone teenagers,
How the fury of confusing adolescence had been channelled into childish excitement,
How they did their best to do away with the rage and sadness that was the curse of their age,
And he spoke of how they succeeded.
He spoke of how one could not handle cider and the other dark rum,
And he spoke of the few ‘incidents’ that steered them from their respective devils.
He spoke of how they lived so wildly, took such impossible risks and received such impossible rewards,
Of how they threw themselves into the wildest moments of wreckhead insanity and emerged unscathed,
Of how they overcame their differences by simply choosing not to have them,
He spoke of platonic love and pure camaraderie.

By this point, my eyes were a little damp and he suggested we change the music and have another drink,
Quick to agree, I told him I wanted to listen to Evil Nine, something with bass to break the beat,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to listen to Ani Difranco instead, because I loved her voice.
I reached for the vodka, but he moved it away, replacing it with yet another glass of wine.
This one was deep in colour, deeper still than the last, and had the smell of distinction about it,
It’s thick, dark quality betraying its owner a connoisseur of some kind,
I sipped it and was moved, after the foul tang of the last it was almost sublime.

I considered conveying to Nostalgia my approval, but he had already begun to speak,
And this time he spoke of a girl, though not in the way you might think.
He spoke of some perfect creature, some indefinable being of immense worth,
He spoke of her walking about the roads down to the beaches,
He spoke in praises of her immense talent with strings and her voice and how the boy had just begun the struggling ascent of learning such things,
He spoke of how they fell headfirst but landed on their feet, running with laughter and grass between their toes.
He spoke of walking beneath the trees and of the constant position each held steadying the other,
He spoke of dependence but also of affection and of how they had found what they needed,
And he spoke at last of the times each defended the other, from predation and foolishness, especially from folly.

Nostalgia noted the ended record and empty glasses, and told me to switch the records whilst he switched the drinks.
I told him I wanted to listen to Kwoon, something new and beautiful to fit the mood,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to listen to Chumbawamba instead.
Unlike the reds of before, this time he poured rose,
The bottle was corked and had a price label on the side, proudly proclaiming it the produce of Londis,
And marking it at the grand price of £2.50 a bottle.

As I put the glass to my lips (and was greeted with the scent of vinegar and chemicals),
He reclined despite the blatant intent of the music to rouse and spoke again.
He spoke of hedonistic boys and girls with a tenner and a deathwish,
Craving cheap wine and cheap thrills, with laughter writ on their faces and youth in their breath,
He spoke of how they fell into some delirious, drunken state of mutual love,
And never left.
He spoke of how they threw up into toilet rims whilst the music pounded the walls and doors,
He spoke of how they collapsed into each other’s arms, smelling of vinegar and love,
Besotted, besozzled and beyond repair, he spoke of how they grappled with Youtube,
Pulling up the next tune, for the heartfelt moment where they serenaded one another with half remembered choruses,
And he spoke of a love so strong between friends that it felt discriminatory to even entertain it.

This fourth glass empty, this third record played I was feeling quite tired, and I told Nostalgia as much.
One more drink, he promised, just the vodka and one more record to be played,
So I told him I wanted Radiohead and for once he agreed,
I went to play In Rainbows, but he stayed my hand and demanded instead Hail to the Thief,
Which as it happened I was rather fond of, so I acquiesced.
With the wine glass unfilled, I was reluctant to now move onto a harder drink,
But he indicated the vodka and I slammed back the shot with no small degree of reluctance,
Feeling the familiar sting and burn of the cheapest way to drink and the cheapest way to go,
There was a tightening in my gut, and a spread of warmth in my being not quite pleasant enough to dispel the feeling of nausea.

As I grimaced, Nostalgia spoke of something else, but this time he spoke of only one thing
A boy sitting amidst his fellows during the earlier sunrise of tumultuous teenage years,
A boy maybe fourteen, eventually fifteen, who sat in the sand and the grass on the cliffs of his hometown,
Slugging vodka from the bottle as he was intoxicated and infatuated with youthful pride,
He spoke of how the boy fell in and out of the grasping equivalent of love,
He spoke of that mad infatuation that grips the mind in a flighty, momentary insanity,
That iron tailed dove that swoops down occasionally in age, but haunts you in youth,
He called it ‘Infatuation’ and a usurper of love, but I found these terms crude.
He spoke of a boy who grew, and found love and purpose eternally only to lose them endlessly,
And he smiled with every word.

By this point, I was about done for the night,
Nostalgia smiled at me as the last record stuttered to a halt,
The ending notes of the album falling in line with his final pertinent point,
And I reluctantly told him to pour another drink whilst I changed the album,
To both of which he said ‘no’, and advised me sit once more.

He had one more story to tell, of some ancient but unforgotten childhood brilliance.
He told of the oldest friends, thirteen years in office with a cross index of each other at hand,
He told of how they moulded and created each other through their years,
He told of endless forests and of stinging nettles yet to feel their wrath,
Of bluebell fields begging to be found and noted,
Of a rock sighing to become a castle,
And a tree to become a god.
He told of such childish things, and of such enduring eternity of memory that I almost wished he had another drink on hand after all,
To steady my nerves after the richness of his narrative.

He asked me to play him a song,
And by this late point I found myself more than willing to indulge him.
I told him I wanted to play Blackbird as he handed me the guitar,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to play Wish You Were Here.
He asked if he could stay the night.

In the morning, I went through to the guest bedroom and was unsurprised to find Nostalgia gone.
The duvet was peeled back but otherwise the bed was made,
Where he had lain there was instead a handful of autumn leaves, a twig and a cooked chestnut,
A yew berry, a toffee apple, a handful of love letters,
Twelve locks of hair and a pair of rose tinted glasses, and I knew for sure that I would miss him