28 July 2010


Picking raspberries. A raspberry for each year, month, day, for each moment away. But I eat them. They are tasted, then gone. One for the bowl, one for me. Staining my hands as I pick. Blood smears. But the butchery is over, and the taste is now sweet, only sometimes tart. Over my cotton dress, that I wish was muslin, I wear your hand-knitted cardigan, worn most when pregnant with me. You tell me I look pregnant in it. Slouchy space to fill with raspberries, all mixed up like Eton Mess. We hold out for blackberries, as the brambles were not cut back this time.

Still wearing the cotton thrift store dress, I go on my first proper bike ride in six years. No time at all, when it comes down to it. A blip just like the bumps I test my suspension on. Warbling over these bumps is instinctive. War cries not quite Red Indian. Bridge pit-stops, half pints and opportunities for you to Tell Me Things. Mostly bird-related. Birdseed and binoculars on the way back.


Ma said...

Your parents are therefore good for two things 1) handknitted cardigans and 2) cycling (with added information); which is all you can ask of them really

anna said...

The two things a child needs in life. But you forgot 3) Chocolate mousse. As well as an afterthought fourth - KNOWLEDGE.

Mike said...

There is more than one "you" here. I'm pretty sure that the parent from whom you nicked a shapeless cardigan is not the same parent that provides essential and important knowledge on Pochard ducks - but both personae are identified as the same second person.
Just saying.

anna said...

See, that's the kind of KNOWLEDGE I'm talkin' about. Right there. Never missing a trick.
Anyway, it's ABSTRACT, yeah?

Ma said...

I thought we are a team? As one? Completely united?