Saturday, 12 July 2014

Umbrella

It was a night like this. As thunder and lighting laid desperate claim to the sky, I remember we shared an umbrella. We pitched it in my living room and crawled into its welcome shelter. It wasn't big by any measure but neither were we. It was home to you and a cave to me. We lit a fire and took turns shivering. I stuck my hand out to catch pretend raindrops while you cooked a make-believe meal for our make-believe family of three.

Two decades have passed, leaving us our own halves of that long forgotten picture. You have a little mouth to feed, a child infinitely more beautiful, and I presume hungrier, than the one you imagined that night. And I'm caught in the rain, sticking my hand out from under the umbrella.

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