I wish I could go back,
into the future,
and meet my Dad
when he was little, says Raf.
You can, I say, when you’re older.
Meaning transcendental meditation.
Oh, somebody made a time machine?
Excited now. Hopeful.
No, but you can do it
with your mind. You can do
anything with your mind, I say,
having learned this the slow way.
Not like Raf, who is learning
gifts with speed –
his seven-year-old self
unrecognizable from mine.
And my brother, meeting him –
a father, in a different time.
Shaista Tayabali, 2018
I wrote this poem when Raf was seven, and we were milling about the tiny Indonesian eco island of Nikoi, thinking about big things like time travel. I haven't travelled since that summer, and most of us haven't travelled for two years now... so as we embark upon Year Three of The Pandemic, I thought this would be a hopeful poem to share. The photograph below is in 'Lupus, You Odd Unnatural Thing', in black and white. I asked Raf's permission to use it in my book. 'Of course,' he said. 'Why are you even asking me?' But I was trying to be respectful - after all, a baby then, a ten year old now, will one day be a grown man... maybe even 'a father, in a different time.'
