There's something about Barbara Kingsolver… My reading her books always precedes a vaguely reflective piece of writing. In this case it was The Lacuna, but that holds no bearings on this story.
This is just a little drabble set sometime after Mary leaves the Banks' household, and I hope, as always, that you enjoy.
I own nothing.
Of all the things Mary Poppins is good at, packing is her least favorite.
By rights, the replacement of a hat stand taller than herself into a carpetbag is no less marvelous than its appearance from that same bag. But it loses something in transition and gains a certain bitterness without the reveal. (By rights, the departure of a flying woman from a household is no less marvelous than her arrival there but it loses much in the same way as the hat stand.)
The shoes go in first, for they're the first things to fall to the bottom anyways.
The children are not to see her pack; she sees to that. She had made that mistake once before and she is not eager to repeat it, their button eyes gleaming brightly as she put her life back into the bag and disentangled it from theirs, making her job that much more difficult.
The tape measure will go in last, for she's always rather foolishly hoping it will stay there, easily accessible.
She puts her bag back together with the same careful efficiency that she uses to put families back together. Not a belonging or thing out of place. Practically perfect people do not permit things to stay out of place.
Practically perfect people are constantly packing up and moving, for they're too rare to stay in one place.
She's never found use in putting off the unpleasant. Things become so much more dreadful when you dread them; the thing to do is to put on your coat and hat and face them as they come, even if the thing is only packing and the dread leaving.
The mirror faces away from her when it goes into the bag, for fear of what that cheeky reflection might have to say.
She's been colder lately. He had commented on that; the sudden absence of the color red from her wardrobe had caused much ado. (About nothing, to her mind, but definitely about something to him.) She had, of course, denied it fiercely. Nothing and no one got to Mary Poppins. (Nothing and no one except the Banks children, apparently, and that damn parrot. And him, of course. But that damn parrot always says what flusters her and he is, well, he is so very him that he's flustering, but in an entirely different way.)
The light is unplugged and its bulb wrapped carefully before disappearing into the maw of the bag, for glass breaks the same whether or not it's in a magic carpetbag.
She worries constantly now; the break in her practically perfect thinking had shaken her to the core. She must be practically perfect, because if Mary Poppins isn't practically perfect, then what is she? A nanny? She's more than that. A magical helper? Certainly not, the phrase connotes elves or fairies and Mary Poppins finds such fancies silly and useless. A woman? Well, of course, but one could hardly form an identity simply on being a woman. (That hadn't stopped Mrs. Banks from trying, of course. But even she had other definitions to fall back on.) A mother? She doesn't have children. A wife? She'd need a husband for that, and she's far too independent to ever need a man. If Mary Poppins isn't practically perfect, she is nothing, and if Mary Poppins is nothing, the world falls apart at the seams.
The plant is lovingly placed in the bag, for a thing of beauty is a joy forever, even when hidden in darkness.
The thing about being practically perfect, she thinks, is that so much of the world rests on your shoulders. You must become bigger than yourself, bigger than your body, to hold up what would surely crush a lesser person. Responsibility is not a thing to be taken lightly; it's lauded as gold but a ton of gold still weighs the same as a ton of lead. As a practically perfect nanny, she holds the responsibility of seeing families through rough times. The fates of marriages, the fates of children. Allowing sentiment to cloud that would be allowing her own judgment to mar whatever work they might manage to do themselves and that would never do. Her work is far too important for her to be emotionally involved.
The bag snaps shut and she nods contentedly, for who will remember that these walls once housed her now that she has been successful in packing and repair?
She had snapped at him when he accused her of being different since her stay at the Banks. She loses her temper rather frequently for a practically perfect person, but never at people. Certainly never at him. He is unfailingly cheerful and blameless. It irks her; for if she, a practically perfect person by all accounts, loses her temper and gets frustrated, how can he, someone with no such lofty pretentions, be so convivial all the time? She's unused to being second best, but in this case she is. (In fact, she could and would make the case that he is an unfailingly better person than even the practically perfect.)
The umbrella is unfurled and it hurls accusations of sentiment at her, for it always has said what flusters her.
She silences it without responding; she has no words to answer its accusations. (Her denial sounds empty, her acceptance is concession. Damned if she does, damned if she doesn't—an unpleasant position for anyone, but especially for one used to making her own fortune.) Once upon a time, she might have been able to face him. Love has never presented itself as a problem before. An obstacle, to be hurdled at the earliest possible convenience, certainly, but it had never posed a problem. But now it seems insurmountable, terrifying, even. She is unfailingly right, but even the practically perfect must sometimes be fallible. She worries it might be her turn next and she could never live through being wrong about something so momentous.
Her scarf and hat are firmly in place, for it gets chilly in the atmosphere where the Banks once flew kites and if Mary Poppins is anything, it is sensible. (Could you craft a new identity from sensibility? It seems no more substantial than being a woman.)
There is a new family out there somewhere, waiting to be pieced back together. All they want is a little glue. Mary Poppins is that glue, but that's not something you could base an identity off of either. Practically perfect will have to remain the order of the day for now.
She closes the door with a click, for there must be some mark of her leaving, but nothing monumental since it happens often.
He had once asked the Banks children who takes care of the fathers. Mothers have fathers, children have mothers. The Banks children had him and they had Mary Poppins. She had found it lovely and touching. But even he had never stopped to ask who takes care of Mary Poppins—a silly question in every one's mind. Practically perfect people should not need taking care of and Mary Poppins was hardly the type to inspire that sort of thinking anyways. (Could you base an identity off of what you were not? That seems somehow worse than identifying simply as a nanny or woman.) Deep down, if she really looked, she'd know why he'd never stopped to ask that question—the answer burns as brightly in his mind as it would in her heart: he did. Without resentment or recompense, he unfailingly tries to take care of her as she'll let him. (It certainly can't be easy—no one's ever given Mary Poppins anything she doesn't want.) She stows the knowledge in a box of steel in her heart; she doesn't want leaving to be harder than it need be (though she's certainly heavier for the new steel that seems to penetrate far deeper than she wanted until soon it seems her entire heart shall be made of metal).
The wind blows, for it always must when she arrives and leaves, the bookends readymade for a tidy story.
She never looks back at the house she's called home for recent memory. And anyways, could you really call it home if you don't grieve upon leaving it? (By that reasoning, she only has one home, and it is ambulatory—rambling through London streets with a red scarf wrapped jauntily around his neck.)
The sky clears as she goes, for everyone knows that changing winds must change the weather.
Up where the smoke is all billowed and curled, between pavement and stars, the sun is rising and she wonders what exactly you could call home when the sky you reside in seems to be aflame with the brilliance of a new day. (Maybe you could take that brilliance and fashion a cloak of it to shield you from the question of who you are without it.)
But still…
Somewhere in London, a chimney sweep with a red scarf around his neck looks up and catches her eye.
And he grins up at her, even though they fought the last time they spoke.
Bert doffs his cap, smiling that lopsided grin of his that sometimes seems it could stop cities (or, at the very least, her heart), and says, "Come back soon, Mary."
(He forgets her last name this time, but that just means her home is more firmly established in his heart and she might be inclined to leave behind her fiery home soon if it means that she can take up residence there forever.)
When she returns, she decides, it shall be in the red coat. (It always was his favorite.)
Well, that's all I have. I certainly hoped you enjoyed. (To say that I'm not hoping to hear your thoughts would be dishonest.)
-Juli-