I rush into the kitchen, late, breathless with the idea;
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ I say just as they used to, to the dusty dead air; winded, blushing and grief-leaden, limbs turn to stone.
Radio sounds, quelled, turning the key slowly now, haste bereft of will, the street scene halts steps, a triangular red warning palm held in the face arrests me on the kerb, binds my hands, unvoiced and unwitnessed.
Undressed, inside and alone, unaddressed projects lie, unmade-up, unaudited, unseen and unforgotten yet fallow; bereft of late kitchen table debate and friction’s fire.
Cherry Coombe 