Image: Adapted from Canva Pro
We are the masters of light, bringing in the anticipation of a cool breeze. Old beams drip with sensations of sour milk. We must be thankful. Remember the surprise of a warm handshake, or the drunkenness brought with a five-a.m. alarm. Mam was outraged when she caught us licking windows. We were tickled pink, whilst she stood there, looking all perplexed, threatening us with the horror of soap suds.
In a way she was right. You preferred the relief brought by fizzing sherbet on your tongue, bursting with excitement at the opening page of a new book and fresh adventure. I was more wrapped up in the thrill of a last-minute penalty or being dangled over Saltom Cliffs looking for Herring Gull eggs.
We were so different, yet she was full of love for both of us, always embracing your calm and my rage and mayhem. You warmed her with Treasure Island, I reddened her cheeks with muddy boots across her kitchen floor. Either way, there was still thankfulness written inside her laughter.
