It is that time. Two weeks after the shift
of light, something from childhood ambushes.
Last year, it was the smell of earth, the sun’s
diluted ember falling dappled through
leaves that snared; pulled me through a wormhole to
my second favourite den by the woods and
within earshot of water. It always
seems to be Thursday, almost suppertime
marked by the mist-soft shimmer of streetlights
sparking to life. Each year I edge closer
home. One day, I will have the courage to
crack open the kitchen door and see Mum
again, vital and cheerful and all she
ever was to me. She will ask me what
I’ve done all day. I will answer “nothing”
and mean it. I will quietly take her
hand and this time I shall not forget. I
will whisper “I still miss you” and mean it.
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