Childhood

Childhood

The afternoon cruises after badminton, lemonade and chutney sandwiches. Voices are like ribbon made for unwrapping the past. Syllables of imaginary laughter blend with the real, as I recall the warmth of uncles, aunts, cousins left behind in foreign cities: Mumbai, London, Goa. I think of the bright day when dad flew our kite on Primrose Hill. It’s hard to say what matters. Everything fragments, defers to time’s calibrations, the long shadows are deceptive.

I piggy‐back my daughter in summer’s leaf‐light. We swim laps in tandem, riding a pink foam noodle, sinking fast, her tiny arms a choker for my neck. I’m weak to her commands, her tears. In any competition, I must lose. The dragonfly’s flight is a tease never kissing its reflection, a cross‐stitch lacing the pool. The distant hum of the freeway sounds like a hole in the heart, the softest turbulence. The garden is a green humidicrib.

Michelle Cahill