Family

We spoke of the future with such alacrity,
swaddled around the campfire shoulder to shoulder,
watching November fifth fireworks.
Our scarves caught the wind and nicked the bushes,
mum shoved gloves over our fingers,
dad grunting over fireworks.
Our fireworks were cheap and listless,
but we watch, hearts squeezed.
No matter that the sky was lit by sonorous colour,
we watched dad’s because they were best.
The future wasn’t yet a trickle in our veins,
nor a worry that plagued our sleep.
The cracks in us hadn’t shown yet.
It was perfect.


and I miss it.