September 5th, 2026

On top of the hill and I am a little girl again. When I close my eyes, cross-legged, waiting for the sounds around to tuck me into their peace, I am simple blades of grass or I expect to be. I expect to be the draping sky with seagull jewels. Or yellow flowers with hairy eyes. And the place where the sun won’t cast, so I am outlined instead.

But here in the dark between my eyelids – the soft crept up place, is her.

She is running along the shining metal bridge – calling out to her brother on the other side of the slide. The wind keeps playing with her hair – tossing it in her face. Her little fingers keep pulling it out her mouth and the wind throws it right back. She is weeping. She is thin as air racing down the side as her brother eggs her on. The metal clangs and rattles holding all its children. Their footsteps ring like bells. It carries her through the play and fun, a lullaby. She still remembers it. And she is weeping. She didn’t think it would become one. The rattle and shes is clanged side side side side. Gentle and puddled back to her.

Where have they gone?

Where am I to go now?

There is supposed to be a home. The home was you and me and more and we. Sitting at the dining table covered with folders and papers, crackers and waiting for you to walk through that glowing door at the end of the day. 

Waddling hands and knees all over the living room floor – me the horse and you get a free ride. Giggles bouncing all over the walls, blowing kisses and making us red.

But instead I am here. I am home, but the wood is silent and dry-eyed. The dinner table is covered in bills and mail and crumbs from the night before. But no one is sat at it. I sit bundled all inside waiting for you to walk through the glowing door again. Call your name and thrust my arms around the warmest sun.

But you never will again. I am the same daughter. You, the same mother. We, never again.

She is weeping. And I let her.