Diary of a Separation (feeling like heading home but having no home to head back to)

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At the weekend I went to one of the workshops organised by Carolyn Lilly as part of her annual AfroDance Xplosion extravaganza. To my shame I had never been. This year I managed to make it to Selleu Blagone’s energy-filled session. It had everything you could ask for: from strength-building to tempo-shifting and rhythmically patterned routines, Selleu was the perfect dream teacher.

A feature about fathers and sons in The Guardian reminds me that A has never worn any of my clothes. There’s never been a pass-me-down item of clothing from me to him.

There was the music, though. I still remember the first time I heard Queen blasting out of his room. It wasn’t the usual big-stadium anthems, but the obscure tracks I had saved on our family PC downstairs, in our “office”. Queen became the gateway for him to lap up rock music in the same way the band had done it for me thirty years before.

So, who needs an old shirt, when you can have your old man’s music, huh?

Today I woke up thinking that it was time to go back home. That the extended holiday I had been on had come to a grinding halt.

I haven’t had a downer for some time now. But that it was a downer, there’s no doubt. Maybe it’s the solitude (I’m sans partner now) or the season. Autumn is in full bloom now.

Time to get back home, Loretta. Your mama’s waiting for you.

Except that, it’s only an empty bed that awaits me at night.

London-based, Cuban writer. Author of “Cuban, Immigrant, and Londoner”, to be published by Austin Macauley. Has written for The Guardian and Prospect.

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