My childhood seems to have been made of patches,
If my memory is anything to go by. Mere snatches
Of scents and tastes and ideas I had collated
That bordered whatever everyday life orchestrated.
I wish I could document it, from go to now,
But it seems impossible. Somehow,
I have concatenated a hodge-podge memory
Of family and incidents and miscellany.
I remember the smell of Judy’s fur in summer heat:
the ginger cat who preceded me, whose dainty feet
Elicited praise from Nan. I can recall
Dropping a bag of lentils, watching them fall
And scatter, euphorically, across the kitchen floor,
And I remember cooking apples: you take out the core
And fill it with sugar and cinnamon and dates
And stick it in the microwave. I watched them rotate
with my brothers, silent.

I remember long car rides in heat: perpetual motion
means perpetual motion sickness. Trips to the ocean;
Following fish and hermit crab trails,
And dragging the poor things back to shore; crushing snails;
standard childhood cruelty, thankfully outgrown,
The scent of tumble-dried socks and lawn new-mown.
Mum making a birthday cake for my toy rabbit;
All the times I heard “that’s a dreadful habit”.
Childhood, a hectic, disgusting, chaotic, funny mess
Amazing I can remember any of it at all, I guess.