Mum’s bottle clicked open
with that sharp brown whiff
that lived somewhere between
seaweed, metal, and trouble.
Knees barked from gravel,
elbows freckled with
the day’s too‑fast cornering,
and she’d dab that amber drop
that rolled like syrup
but bit like a tiny spark.
“I‑o‑dine,” she’d chant,
stretching the vowels
as if the sound itself
could clean a wound.
“Are‑ya‑done?” I’d fire back,
half‑brave, half‑whinge,
because the sting always arrived
a blink after the colour bloomed.
It painted my skin
in rusty constellations,
left blotches on shirts
that never washed out,
badges of honour
for a day well‑spent
skidding through dirt
and inventing danger.
By evening, the marks
glowed faintly on my shins,
a kind of sunset souvenir
from the rough‑and‑tumble hours
before the streetlights flicked on.
And Mum would hold the bottle up,
give it a shake like a tiny rattle,
and ask again, softer this time,
“Are‑ya‑done?”
But the day never really was.
Only paused.
Waiting for the next sprint,
the next scrape,
the next amber bloom.
.