Orange

My Bugs Bunny. The plastic flower light. Stories of teddies racing to the moon. The wooden doll house, chalked driveway, ripped summer dress, rock n roll t-shirts, princess heels, riding my bike, jumping into a lagoon, trips to our river with the no swimming sign, playing my band in the backseat, no thoughts of growing up, only dreams and nightmares, and being young. Looking through the grass in case of tigers, or when we became heroes behind your sister's flat in the jungle of trees. The day my brother was born. Being a twin. She started her life without me, but I met her way before we were born. I existed one year before my other sister. How?

That is the last thing I see. My face in the ceiling, looking down at what finally happens. What you have to see. You have to see those things that rattle beneath your eyes, like a train slowly passing, the loud laughter of my sisters in the next room, knowing tomorrow was full of ice cream cones in caravans, and games where I could fly, and I could run. To not dream of anything anymore. I'm dreaming now though.

I’m dreaming of a life not far from me. Down a black drainpipe, it whistles quietly. It whispers my name. Soft light emits from within. Blonde hair sticking to my neck. Orange flavoured ice lollies melting on my fingers. You are washing my sticky face. Creating worlds in one day, and being bored of them the next. We rode our bikes like they could lift us into the sky. We climbed the neighbour’s dead tree and threw sticks on the roads. Lay down on them, daring each other. Walking the same path, visiting from another city. Trains taking me home. The small tunnel in the play area of our favourite service station. It was dark, the fear of a monster lying in wait. Knowing you would fall asleep to the rumble of the car, but recognise the turn into our street with our eyes closed. Cold house, mad run to our beds. We’ll unpack tomorrow. This is the grand show. Sit back, and enjoy the part of the rollercoaster when you’re climbing to the top, that mad rush of fright making you yell out with delight. Not the drop down, don’t think about the drop down. When the ride is over. It is over for me, now. But I can smell buttercups, and you’re giving me sliced oranges, rubbing dirt off my face. The pigeon cooing in the sunny garden. I am 10 years old. I bite my tongue as the fireworks go off, in the park down the road. I am 8 years old. My face is painted like a tiger. I can run as fast as one. Stroking glittering bees, and hanging badly drawn pictures on our lime green walls. My childhood best friend holds my hand. I look down at my hand now, on the hospital bed. I have a matching friendship bracelet, purple and homemade. I blink at it before it goes. Before it all goes. Before my name is nothing more than a word etched onto stone, and I am just a memory. I become the moon through the ceiling, and the last thing I see is a little girl wearing a rock’n’roll t-shirt, blonde hair sticking to her face. She knows me, and paints my face orange. I want to be a tiger.