Type: Freestyle with Prompt
Time: 10 minutes + edit
“Go with them in their suitcases”.
We’d laugh at that, and then cry. Were there too many of them, or were they just overweight. We’d sleep the whole morning, but the smell of rough rolls would wake me up – ones my mother must’ve unpacked. I got my doll out and washed it in a bucket just like I did with the curly haired little girl – how meticulous she was about the dirt, just as the old mothers and aunts were. Dressed in a long shirt, she scrubs, as slush falls onto the tiles. We would walk to the back, greet the animals, and then it was back to the house. We had to put curtains up as the sun set early, blinding mrs.U. The smell of mothballs, and vibration of wheel rumbling on the tiles upstairs, the bashes as the two brothers pulled them upstairs – welcome back. I can hear my heart and lunges, because there’s no machines running. Too much oxygen. We would drag out the straw carpets and sit on light things. The night cold hammers into my bones. Dogs bark and donkeys bray outside, then the stillness stands out. I would hear her soft snores as some life – and tilt my head up in the darkness, to see, – just to see what my hand looks like at least. The darkness barriers me from my body; I remember the grave. The baby owls complain out from the wall trees.
I wake up in the morning, feeling too close to nature – nothing of plastic, or that same oxygen cycle; the day one would open up their suitcase. The drawers in our cupboards were made for a pair of shoes for each draw, not that I was going to unpack though- this time my stuff stays in, because I was going back tomorrow – if not, after tomorrow, or the day after that… Maybe someday, but I needed to stay in the suitcase – a womb cord I resisted to cut. My screen would tick 2:00. We imagined running to the beach with our towels, for a swim before breakfast, just like the kids of Kirrin Cottage. The reality was Nemo found a bone – one would crack open, and close – something she still has up to now -. She found old paper belonging to a lost scientist who found his way over here as well, some time ago. The reality was unpacking, writing shopping lists, pulling out moth-smelling old toys and gadgets, and crimpled clothes that might’ve smelt like mould if it weren’t for the moth balls. Kitchen draws had the Swedish candy smell emanating, and bringing back those laughs sniggers and farewell hugs.The teeth shaped one disappeared, and was never found again – everyone suspected everything. They were intense. Dime; that red packet of joy, we would pull, and pull, and pull from. And that is what has brought me to this page. The moth balls scented the house, but not the suitcases.
They stayed smelling of Ülker biscuits, soft-omo washed clothes, and desert dust.