Forget-Me-Not
Forget-me-nots
reminded her of Aunt May
and ants
in a terraced garden on Sunday afternoons.
A glass of
orange squash and tea for Dad
in the
antique china heirloom cups
with roses
on the side. Not a real aunt,
the lady
who lived next door when Dad was growing up,
living in
Bromsgrove now in her mother's house
with the
heavy tapestry curtains and the carriage clock
ticking
away the minutes until school;
the heady
scent of floor polish and beeswax;
embroidered
antimacassars and tablecloths.
Her dad's
cigarettes left smoke in layers around the ceiling
and Aunt
May talked about people she hadn't known
and places
she'd never heard of;
memory
photographs with no shared connection
leaving
blank spaces to be filled
with
coloured pencils or chalk
on the
paving slabs where the ants danced
on Sunday
Afternoons.
© Rachel Green 2016
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