Our house is tall. Bedrooms tuck in corners off a curving staircase up three floors.
When you come striding along the station platform I hug you and grab your backpack to carry. We’ve been living in different countries for too long.
We sleep, work on a huge jig-saw puzzle, you make a chocolate cake. We talk and talk.
One night at bedtime you come into my room, eyes shining,
‘Mum, do you want to have a sleepover in my room tonight? I’ve made up the other bed for you.’
I go up the next flight of stairs. In the room, lamplight, two little red-covered beds turned back, the window curtain fluttering.
Without thinking, I refuse.
Still the knife of memory twists in me.
light at six
last night’s sunset
otters at play