Maybe it was the melancholy sun.
Alone in the car I listened to the CD in the player absently, going over chores and lists in my mind. “Make the plane tickets for D.C., fold the socks, remember to buy more juice.”
I heard the familiar blood-stirring melody faintly and reached over to turn up the volume.
Climbin’ up on Salisibury Hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowin’, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night
Unbidden, tears pricked the back of my eyes. Suddenly I saw London at night, laid out below me like so many loose diamonds on jeweler’s velvet. I saw my parents, walking hand in hand up Primrose Hill. I peeked inside the living room of a four-story Georgian townhouse and saw my family in its golden age.
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing, stretching every nerve
Had to listen, had no choice
I did not believe the information
Just had to trust imagination
My heart goin’ boom boom boom
Son, he said, grab your things
I’ve come to take you home
Home. I listened to this song alone in my English bedroom and felt the steady beat of the drum echoing my own yearning to be rescued. To be taken from the frightening social labyrinth of my new school and the strange country with its unintelligible accent and unidentifiable foods. This is not where I belonged. I wanted the familiar, the comfortable. I wanted to lay my head in my mother’s lap and cry out the frustration and humiliation I endured all day, every day.
Then I saw in my mind’s eye my parents. I saw them laughing and gilded. I saw them at the dinner table with my husband and me. I saw them at my wedding, eyes gleaming with love and pride.
When illusion’s been a net
I’m never where I wanna be
And Liberty should pirouette
When I think that I am free
Watched by empty silhouettes
Who close their eyes but still can see
No one taught them ettiquette
I will show another me
The day I don’t need a replacement
I’ll tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart goin’ boom boom boom
“Hey,” I said, “You can keep my things
They’ve come to take me home.”
I pulled the car into the garage and sat for a moment, listening to the last strains of music fade away. I looked out the window and saw my house. Inside my daughter rested her head and my husband waited for my return. I would make dinner and feed my family and lay my head on the pillow tired and satisfied.
I waited all my life for someone to come and take me home. And just this week I realized I have arrived there all on my own.
Inspired by the music and lyrics of Peter Gabriel’s Salisbury Hill.
Mrs. Chicken is a freelance writer and SAHM to the two-year-old Poo. She is learning to love life on the prairie while her husband pursues a doctorate at a Huge Midwestern University and blogs with dreadful regularity at Chicken And Cheese. She’s tickled pink to host Amanda at her place today, so click on over and enjoy!
Wow. What a wonderful post, Mrs. C. Again, you amaze me with your vision and your passion. I see everything that you write.
Thanks so much for this post.
It's amazing what music can do for us, isn't it?
Lovely post, Mrs. Chicken. This is a great topic because it's so cool to get another person's insight into songs that I know and love.
I hate to be a quibbler, but Salisbury is the steak. Solsbury is the hill.
Prairie Biker, Let's be honest … you LOVE to be a quibbler! 🙂
I'm a writer, not a speller …
Beautiful Mrs. Chicken! I, too, can see everything that you write. I just love that you share so much of your soul with us when you write! Thank you! Beautiful!
Perhaps. But I'll bet the view of Bath from the old hill fort is quite different than looking at it from a mound of tenderized and overcooked beef critter.
Although both seem vaguely appropriate when talking about England….
Thanks for sharing your beautiful writing. Beautiful!
Lovely. That is all.
Yeah, what kfk said. Lovely.
You sure did justice to this interesting writing prompt. Makes me wish I got my act in gear in time to sign up this month 🙂
oh, from one end of the spectrum to the other – thanks 🙂