another done

Are‑ya‑done”

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.

.