Vapour

I told her of my childhood memories

the tiny alum stone my father used

as an aftershave

furniture from the verandah

the old lawyer’s house I was born in

my father’s first motorcycle

the blue nightbulbs

paraphernalia of objects I saw

crawling on the wet cold floor

the same municipal floor

of an LIG house

where blood mixed with drool and piss

dried up under our feet

crafting inordinate memoirs

of tiny battles

that we fought every single day

sometimes as a family

sometimes alone

in our separate rooms

in the verandah

in the garage

while crawling on the floor

or making dinner for seven

every single tear

made vapour on the sombre stove fire.

 

 

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