Lit Up In Blue

Were you there at the turn of the Century? Did you watch the fireworks explode, filling the sky with sparkles: red, white, green, silver, purple, and gold? Big Ben chimed. Riverboats sounded their klaxons. Did you see the Dome, lit up in blue? Rosie and I were there, standing in the heaving throng by Blackfriars Bridge on that damp, murky, misty, unforgettable night.

Rosie was dressed in her thick black woollen coat to keep her and our baby dry and warm. We left the celebrations early, taking the free Tube ride home, to beat the early morning rush. Our eyes glistened, tears of happiness. Our hearts were filled with hope.

I recall Rosie’s sleepy head resting on my shoulder. Her wispy brown hair, tickling my nose.

We held hands like teenagers.

As the train glided through the long dark night.

When we reached the end of the line, we left the station, took a narrow path past the car park, climbed the steep steps, and trudged uphill. The houses were silent, lights out: their celebrations over for another year. At the top of the hill, a gloomy alleyway led us to the high road.

I looked right.

The street was deserted.

We approached the crossing.

I pressed the button, instinctively letting go of Rosie’s hand.

Protective of her and our baby, I stepped into the road first, as the lights turned red. I heard Rosie screaming behind me, turned my head, looked left. Blinded by headlights. Deafened by the sound of screeching brakes. The car swept me off my feet. I bounced on its bonnet. My head smashed against the windscreen. I’ll never forget the startled look on the kid’s face.

The last person I remember seeing is Rosie.

Did you see her?

Lit up in blue.