'Cause the Hardest Part of This is Leaving You.

My mom was in labour for fourteen hours with me. It was the hottest April on record. So hot I didn’t wear any clothes for the first two weeks of my life.

" I used to lay you on my tummy and we’d sleep for hours, " she says. " It was too hot to do anything but sleep. "

Like charades, this going over of memories.
" I used to take you on the bus to meet Dad in his lunch break and you’d sit on my lap and stare at people. You had such an intense look about you. Everyone used to comment on it. "

The light is very bright. A great slab of it falls through the window and lands on the bed. I can rest my hand in sunshine without even moving

" Do you remember when we went to the beach and you lost your charm bracelet there? "

She’s brought photos, holds them up one by one.
A green and white afternoon threading daisies.
The chalk light of winter at the city farm.
Yellow leaves, muddy boots and a proud black bucket.

" What did you catch, do you remember? "

Courtney said my hearing would be the last thing to go, but she didn’t say I’d see colours when people talk.
Whole sentences arc across the room like rainbows.
I get confused.

I’m twelve. I get home from school and Dad’s on the doorstep. He has his jacket on and a suitcase at his feet. He gives me an envelope. " Give this to your mom when she gets home. "

He kisses me goodbye. I watch him until he reaches the horizon, and at the top of the hill, like a puff of smoke, he disappears.