It was the season of amber skies
and shapes of deer right below.
This was the house we built
in the middle of summer storms —
where we painted the walls
with heavy strokes
and let ourselves sink
into the cushions
of a worn-out sofa.
Dad golfs and cooks.
Saturdays he marinates pigeons.
Mum grazes every room
with the etherealness
of dragonflies’ wings.
My sister lies her ginger curls on the sofa.
The house that survived
and floated in the middle
of summer storms.
No foundations —only held by furious air.
A shape of happiness we couldn’t hold
between our fingers.
Instead we settled for
vague memories
and a sharp, razing end.
It is the very last Tuesday,
and all that is left from my dad
is the smell of kumquats
and freshly cut cigars.
Mum is locked in her room,
and somehow I know
that no matter how close she is,
I’ll never be able to chase her.
My sister lies on the sofa
and has barely moved a curl.
We learnt to keep secrets
but never promises.