I’m still here, you know. Even through these misty eyes, I still see.
But when you look, you see an old person sitting in a chair, unable to speak,
the times I played and danced and laughed
forgotten.
Why don’t you see me?
Please,
you should still see
it’s me.
Henry would like to be great at everything but never will be.
Granma’s room; always dark. Silence, stillness, nothing touched.
Nine years old, the oldest, not the favourite.
Is Granma alright? Maybe tea?
Two cups of bitter, peaty liquid; no milk, no sugar.
“Drink it.”
The leaves drift into symbols.
She frowns.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
The word stains like nicotine.
David Rae currently works with numbers, but prefers working with words.