With Love from London by Sarah Jio

Author:Sarah Jio [Jio, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-02-08T00:00:00+00:00

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WHEN I SEE TOWER Bridge approaching, I ask the driver to drop me off so I can take in its iconic structure up close. I think of my mother’s stories of her beloved London, which most often included references to this very bridge—a stalwart of her formative years. She told of riding her old bike, with an attached basket and a bell on the handlebar, pedaling gleefully, wind in her hair, across the River Thames. I knew her childhood in one of London’s poorer neighborhoods hadn’t been easy, but to me, her stories still seemed like the very best fairy tales, and I longed to live in them.

I follow the path that leads to the bridge’s pedestrian walkway, dodging an oncoming jogger and brushing off a stray droplet of his sweat when it hits my arm before zigzagging past a group of tourists ambling along slowly behind their guide. When I reach the other side, I check the navigation on my phone and realize I’d miscalculated the walking distance to the university, which is still forty-five minutes away. I could hail a cab, of course, but the sunshine beckons, and I decide to keep going. These are my mother’s old streets, after all. And even though we’re separated by so many years, I cautiously let myself imagine her walking beside me now, our strides in step, as she shows me her homeland. It’s almost as if she were whispering in my ear. “Do you see that corner over there. It’s where I skinned my knee walking home from school when I was eleven. The pain wasn’t nearly as bad as my embarrassment that Johnny Easton saw the whole thing. And, Val, look, the old Cornish Café. On the last Sunday of each month, if my mum had any spare change, she’d take me there for breakfast.”

I think of what Eric and I spoke about at lunch, about knowing our parents as adults. Would we be friends, my mother and me, if she were here right now, if I could…forgive her?

After I cross the bridge, I walk on, lost in my thoughts, while checking the navigation on my phone from time to time. Eventually, Queen Mary University’s sprawling campus appears in the distance. I round the next corner, then follow a brick walkway, where a regal-looking white stone structure stands in the distance. It looks like a palace, which is fitting, given the sign at the entrance that reads QUEEN’S BUILDING. A clock tower in matching pale stone juts out above the trees, presiding over students as they scurry in and out of the entrance.

I ask one of them for directions to the English department. She shifts her headphones to the side as I repeat the question, then points to a building just ahead, on the left. I thank her and continue on until I find the entrance and follow two backpack-clad students into the lobby.

“I’m here to see Mr. Harvey Ellison,” I say to the front-desk receptionist, who has the look of someone who isn’t interested in doing any favors.

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