Mother talks to me of walks to her country school, along honeysuckled-scented lanes of hawthorns and high hedges, collecting chestnuts on the way, to skin and string, to play conkers with our aunt Serena. She asks, “Remember, you sat behind me?” Then, silence. She looks away. She dislikes me watching her walking in and out of heir-loomed rooms, lost, looking for something familiar. Today, with glee, she screams she’s found me: “Ah, there you are, Serena!”
her sister is dead
has been for ten years
and I am
my mother’s
darling daughter
has been for ten years
and I am
my mother’s
darling daughter
by Barbara A Taylor
Mountain Top, NSW, Australia
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