In my dreams, I am small again,

a wee child waiting to be tucked into bed,

staring at the glowing stars on my ceiling.

If I returned to that time now, no one would be there,

the turquoise paint on my bedroom walls would have peeled

and my pink curtains would be shredded by moths and mason bees.

But for now, I yearn for a time when my mum wasn’t sick and my brother was still in the

room next to mine.

When I would run to meet my father at the front door when he returned from work.

A time before my body was carved into adult form,

before I was fully conscious of the generational ache embedded in my bones.

I miss family game nights on the living room floor

and eating fish and chips on the beach not concerned by my stomach bulging as I sat

cross-legged.

I fear I will spend the rest of my life missing things I can not truly remember.

The memories are now a glowing yellow haze in the back of my mind

Burning down through my body, getting stuck in my throat.

Perhaps my mind will forget in the daylight,

but when night falls…

I dream I am small again.