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Seven-Year-Old Me

@just.wxrds

By Joseph ParkinsonPublished 6 years ago 2 min read
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Nobody remembers the summer in

Which I almost – ALMOST – broke my

Leg dancing in the rain outside a bus stop.

It was pouring, and the occasional breath

Of thunder hummed in my ears but the

Lightning was too shy to show itself, and

Hid high above the clouds; I knew this

Because I could see it giggle between the

Outlines of the raindrops, peeking out from

Behind its cloudy curtain. I danced while

My mother scanned the timetable for the

Bus’s arrival, and strangers looked around

Nervously as if the anticipation of a fucking

Bus arriving was too much to bear. I played

Happily alone, as many seven-year-olds do,

Splashing in puddles and following a stream

Of dirty water round the corner and listening

To the faint sound of it drip down the drain,

Drowned out by the sound of the rain and the

Thunder and the bus pulling up behind me.

It took my mother four minutes into her journey

Home to realise I wasn’t there.

In the time it took her to come back, I had seen

A stray dog across the road, which, obviously,

Was the most beautiful thing in the world to

Seven-year-old me, and my seven-year-old head

Thought it would be a brilliant idea to run across

A thirty-year-old road right in front of a three-year-

Old car. My face dropped its smile as I braced for

The impact, stopping dead centre of the headlights.

I heard my mother scream. She covered my eyes.

I woke up to lights just as bright, and shrieked.

The doctors that were in the ward heard me,

And looked as though they’d forgotten I was

There. They told me I hadn’t broken anything,

however I’d almost – ALMOST – fractured my left

Femur, but got off easier than my mother.

Seven-year-old me didn’t understand how unlucky

I was.

Twenty-eight years later, and thirty-five-year-old

Me remembers this summer, eating alone at an

Empty Italian restaurant down from my flat, the

One-bedroomed prison finding company with the

Other rooms in the building while I’m gone. I’ve

Been waiting twenty minutes for a waiter to

Come around to ask for my bill, but so late on a

Friday night, the staff just want to go home to

Their families, so often enjoy each other’s

Company before their customers’. Eventually,

One came and collected my dish, the half that I

Left now stone cold. I ask for my bill and he nods,

Without looking at me. I pay and leave, thanking

Them but being dismissed as just another patron.

I pulled my hood up as the rain outside poured

Down, and I walked to wait for the bus alone.

sad poetry
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