Time Warp

Sometimes, usually in the dead of night, a cold clammy fear comes over me. A shock wave, jolting me out of my near slumber, sending my eyelids shooting into their sockets and my heart into a clenched fist punching against my breastbone. A time warp. Two years of healing gone in a millisecond and I'm back there. Sometimes, these have felt like the longest years of my life and other times I imagine I've just been dreaming. That I could wake up, pad downstairs, push open the frosted glass door to the kitchen, using my free hand to gently manoeuvre Robbie and Dillon out of the way, help myself to soda bread and stare sleepily out of the french windows at the dewy morning whilst the kettle whistles. If I was dropped back into that life now, I would know exactly what to do. But another girl now pads down those stairs, opens the frosty door and stares sleepily out at the dewy morning. And two years ago, this great big hand reached down from the sky and plucked me out of that life bubble, piercing it's protective film as it pulled me miles into the sky and then released me, crashing down to earth, sticky and wet and broken. But I've been learning to blow life bubbles of my own since then and I can nearly make one big enough just for me to live in comfortably. But every now and then time warps and I fear the cold, clammy hand reaching for me in the dead of night.