Cherry-flavoured

Sitting there, talking to

no one in particular,

she swings her

little bruised legs

with Frozen band-aids stuck all over.

 

I don’t really like the cherry ones

and I wanted the blue-raspberry but I still like the

mystery Airheads because they’re

white and funny and you don’t know what you’ll get

so I don’t mind having to eat this mystery one even if it’s cherry.

 

She takes another bite and

chews in time with her

swinging legs

like a metronome keeping her

conversation at an undecided tempo.

 

I could tell it was cherry,

it has the loudest smell

but it tastes kinda funny

like medicine for my sore tummy

(hehe, that rhymed)

but I have to eat it

because it’s a present from my mummy.

 

She points her red Mary-Jane toes

to scrape the sand.

Her feet barely touch the

surface and she carves undefined

lines into the sand, her eyebrows knit

together in thought.

 

She stops chewing and swallows,

hops down onto the ground,

erasing the light breaks of the surface

her pointed toes had carved before.

She points the toe of her right foot

and places it on the ground in front of her and

swings it around dragging

a circle in the sand about her.

She draws a map of her world.

She is the centre

and alone.

 

My teacher says, “Home is where the heart is,”

but I don’t get how my mummy

and me can have

two different homes

’cause mine’s wherever she is

but hers is at work.

 

A white car glides up to the park gate,

the door swings open.

A flash of cherry-red seats before she runs to it.

Then her scarred, Frozen-band-aided legs

clamber into the cherry-flavoured car.

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