Tag: memory
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Walking Bare
I wasn’t madefor straight roads.My bones rememberbare earth,the breath beforethe leap. We walk stiff now—feet wrapped in slaughterand stolen skin.Even the groundpulls away. But some nightswhen the house forgetsto hum,I move softer— past walls,past memory,into a placewhere treesstill whisper. And for a moment,I sense them—my fur and blood,the wild hunt.In the back of my throata…
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Paw Print
Years since—his bowl gone,yard grown over,collar hangingunused. This morning,cleaning the window,I found it—one print,low in the corner,half lost to light. It floored me.Solid.Sure.The weight of himin a single mark. I stoodcloth in hand,his breathsuddenly in the room. Didn’t wipe it.Didn’t move. Just watchedas the sun warmed the glassand brought himloping backthrough the yardand the years.…
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Tearing Sunshine
Mum moves like rinse water—warm, grey,going where she’s poured.Hands red-rawfrom bleach and bonesshe can’t scrub clean.She hums when she’s bone-tired,not for tune,just to keep from cracking. Dad says work is hard—but only ever sits,rail grease on his boots,beer in hand,trophy beside him:Highest Goal Scorer,1983. He holds it like a woundthat never scabbed.Says he could’ve been…
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First Smoke
I lit it behind the shedwith a match I struck on the tin—my thumb raw from trying. The cigarette trembledbetween fingers that still knewLego and scraped knees. I didn’t cough.Didn’t blink.Just held the burn inlike I was keeping a secretonly smoke could understand. The dog watched,head tilted,like he knew I’d crossedinto something I couldn’t uncross.…
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The Stack
Miss Carr was the strict one—hair wired tight,skirts to the shin,a voice of rulesand overdue fines. The library breathed her name.Quiet, please.Return on time.Hands to yourself. I once saw her shush the deputy principal,and he apologised. We said she slept in the archives,alphabetised her dreams,quietened ghosts for sport. She didn’t see me—tucked in Fiction,in the…
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Red Wagon
I pulled my dog through summers,tongue lolling in the heat,ears twitching at beesand things only he could hear. The wagon rattled like laughterover cracked footpaths,and I—captain of that small red ship—knew no world beyondthe corner storeand the shade beneath our tree. It was enough. Now I carry more—keys, deadlines, debt,the ache of wantingwhat I used…
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you left before the bell
we were sixteen,all collarbones and restless hands,kicking gravel behind the bike shedslike we knew the world owed us somethingand we weren’t afraid to ask for it. your name lived in my throatfor years afterlike a word I never learned to sayout loud. we never got a proper ending—just a Tuesdayand a late noteand a suddensilence.…
