We, returned from shopping,
sit at the laminated table.
No one else home
mother mine in time
as we ping shelled peas into a saucepan.
Too soon I hear
the squeak of the side gate
and catch mother’s eyes
our hands paused
treasuring a moment
lost as the backdoor opens and slams shut.
School bags hit the floor –
fragments like flies in resin,
amber beads linking her and me
even as events forever separate us.
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