By | 1 May 2015

On the old blue trampoline
beneath the apricot tree
the breeze is a blade
scraping my cheeks,
the dew-damp air
bites like snow
and glass falls through leaves
onto my eyelids.

On the hospital bed
Dad reads from Strawberry Shortcake.
I relax against him,
twisting the plastic bracelet
circling my wrist.
His shapeless voice
vibrates through our sides.

I pull the box from beneath
the antique dresser,
lift its lid, release
a delicious aura.
I gather sheaves of shiny letters
in my small hands,
shuffle and lay them out.
‘Mum! Can I do my words?’

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