It was raining, dark, and the end

of summer.

I was telling the story

when I sat by the back window.

you were there, I was maybe nine.

voice and raindrops rose

and fell like tiny

little wet slaps.

A wake-up call,

some may say.

“Tell us your story,” and

we’d go around the group.

“I was nine,” I would say,

but maybe I was ten.

A hush fell in cocooned

shelter,

and there I was, looking out again.

Far away dream voices nagged

at me.

They were coming from up the

stairs, from behind,

my nose pressed up against

the cool glass

(it was summer)

as if waiting for an event

in the garden.

Then it all gained this

electric momentum,

accelerated voices a tousle of

limbs, my ten (or was I nine)

year old nose flush

up to the glass.

Never had I seen

a grown man cry and so

I stood there, the voices

propelling behind me with

diesel force, waiting,

as I said,

for the garden event.

The tree stood there totally

unashamed, perhaps unaware

of the role it would later play.

A fruitful tree, too rough

to climb, whose branches we’d

strip of apricots at the close of

every summer.

It was nearly time, maybe I was nine.

She was leaving him, the dream voice

said. She’d had enough. The

low branch readied itself, my wet

nose cool on glass, the heavy, angry

pitter patter of feet scampering

down stairs.

The slap –

backdoor released from its hinge.

A jingle bells of car keys hiding in

her bag.

“And where were you? They asked.

Under the awning, rain wetting

our feet, hair attaching

to foreheads with damp insistence.

“I think I was nine,” I said. “Or

maybe ten. He was there,” and

I pointed somewhere. Wet rain

wet my feet and hands, wet nose,

dog-like, again pressed against

the glass,

hot breath

making little foggy circle,

enveloping my view.

She had walked straight under the

branch of the apricot tree and was

halfway opening the car when

it hit him.

Maybe I’d never seen a fall

like that, maybe I’d never

seen him fall.

His back flush against pavement,

my nose, wet, flush against

the glass. When he

touched his forehead

blood appeared, a deep

red smear on

fingertips. No blood

I’d seen before. No

laceration, no wound.

The one with keys, her

dream voice rose and her palms

opened up and she rushed

to him.

Naturally.

Rain fell.

“And what next?” they said,

“and were you nine or ten?”

“I’m sure,” I said, rain

somehow seeping through the

awning. We were at

the art show and everything

smelled like cigarettes.

A girl squeezed past

whose white dress was

stained with chilled red

wine, like diluted blood,

like blood washed out

but still a fixture

of the fibres.

Nothing happened.

We went on like this for

some while, the

apricots stewing beautifully,

a lovely treat

for autumn, everyone moved

around, courteously,

enjoying the art, pretending

that it made them feel something.