her laughter was so sweet to me.
little lady,
she laughed at me every day.
i wore the knowledge that she found me funny like a badge of honour.
like a medal.
like my proudest moment .
i loved to bring it out, her laugh -
to tease great globby drops of giggles from her tiny frame
until they burst forth
and filled the room,
and poured down the hall,
and through the door, and out
onto the street.
those drops that i remembered as drops fell from my eyes,
out from my chest,
onto my belly
in my private watery moments of grief.
About the Creator
hannah beckingham
A nurse, sister, daughter, auntie, sober alcoholic, recovering debtor, nomad-at-heart, preacher's kid, over-thinker, dog-lover, new-to-my-40s queer cis-woman, teacher, reader, writer and netflix-binger sharing some thoughts along the way.
Keep reading
More stories from hannah beckingham and writers in Poets and other communities.
refuge: a thank you
The city lights, blurred by rain pounding the windscreen, mock my pounding head. Flashing reds and blues, greens and ambers, piercing whites, and a garish spectrum of neon signs create a crashing symphony of pain behind my eyes. Perhaps it was the heady perfume that filled the train carriage on my commute home, but it could well have been the storm itself that started it. Like some kind of torturous oracle, a migraine always portends heavy weather.
By hannah beckingham3 years ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.