January the second

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I wake to thick thumb snowflakes, chat to the recycling queen and walk with a Russian speaking mum whose kids pull their hens in a sledge as their postman daddy smiles at them from the sky

Me and my folks play word games watching the gravy smelling buffet and flag on the 18th hole disappear under white as a young boy bagpipes a table self consciously to their 50th year

And dad, forever the scientist, his word game requiring advanced chemistry to participate and then a hug in the only supermarket from Sylvia who used to feed me cold scrambled egg sandwiches when I played armies with her daughter who no longer sends christmas cards (and we’re not even facebook friends)
And back through the churchyard to warm mince pies and cream and a rush of gratitude that even when i have given everything up I have everything still and there is more of better to come
And I peruse maps of the world with its oyster shadows and my mum frantically sweeps her eyes through pages of jobs so she can tell her friends I am fine, just fine, which I am.

 

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