by Freya Morris
The nose-tickling pollen sucked up my nostrils, sending my head flying back in a great, boisterous sneeze. I held your hand tightly, it was warm and smooth despite its bark-like appearance. We swung back and forth on the creaky swing seat, bathing in the rays of sun.
“We’ve never had much luck before,” you said, “in getting birds to our feeder.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, to such an ordinary comment. Our eyes traced the fluttering birds; the gold finches, the red-breasts, the pecker and the buzzard that circled above. I looked at you, your eyes were closed, head tilted back and your chest expanded like a sponge soaking in the weather.
You smiled, lips held tightly together as a single tear slid down your cheek. I squeezed your hand tighter.
“What a beautiful day it is,” you said, “just beautiful.”
Then barely audible, you whispered, “He’d of loved it.”
Bristolian Freya Morris spends her life trying to make words behave themselves and getting her children’s novel published.