View From The Tower

I've been looking for places to post non-fiction prose online, the idea being to make money from my writing. Since other people have the same idea and it takes forever to get paid — assuming the piece is accepted, I've posted it here for now. This is what it's like to be me at the moment.

It's almost summer here in Salford. The trees are growing greener and already the cherry blossom petals are blowing in the breeze. I can't feel it on my face because I'm in the tower. It's a long way down; the people look like tiny figurines from where I sit. Like models in a fancy train set scene. I can't wave to them, they won't see me because I'm in the tower. Lockdown is a state of mind as well as a reality. I never paid much attention to the parks, gardens, and walkways before but now it's all I think about here in the tower.

On those days when I get out of Covid-19 jail I'm free for but a little while to exercise or shop as I see fit. The sun shines down benignly, warming my head and shoulders as I walk towards the Precinct. I breathe in the smell of Salford; mown grass, new leaves, a trace of barbecue. People lean out of their windows, watching the world go by. Music blares from boom boxes. At the sound of a rapid rattle I step aside and a cyclist whizzes past. The walkway opens out before me. I can see some cars on the road ahead but they are few. Ahead of me the shops are mostly shuttered. When I turn I see a line of people queuing for the local grocer, a man-length between them. There I take my place.

I clamp a paper hankie over my nose and mouth when others approach, afraid of what they might be bringing with them. The Coronavirus is a silent killer, swirling around, seeking some poor soul to possess. I'm like a hunting polar bear in the shops, hiding my nose and mouth as I reach for bread, butter, meat — the bare necessities. When I leave I nip smartly past the line of people parted by design, the lines taped onto the pavement. An open road awaits, dotted with folks riding bikes or strolling with their kids. I bid them all a swift adieu as I criss-cross the road to avoid them. Tempted by the sight of a clump of blossom on a long twig, I reach up and snatch it, tucking it into the bulging bag of groceries I hold. The shadow of an approaching person warns me to clamp the hankie back over my nose and mouth until he has passed — too close for comfort. Well, mine. He seems to be oblivious to the threat. The tower awaits, looming shiny green and purple ahead of me.

So I return through the barred high gate, the sets of doors, and the lift, to my flat on the fifteenth floor. The shopping put away, I take a cup of tea into the lounge and gaze through floor-to-ceiling windows at the scene below. Salford is green, her purple-grey hills hazy in the distance. New towers rear up not far away, the lazy cranes lifting beams and blocks to add to their bulk. The road below is sparsely travelled. The city lies beyond, and there my hope lies for a better tomorrow. Today, though, I remain in the tower — my jailer and protector.