For a short while I see the old house as it was. Freshly painted walls, swing seat on the veranda, the old tyre hanging from the oak tree. But it’s soon swallowed by time, the mist rolling back. It’s older now, a sold sign swings from the porch. I stand in the passage, dust motes dancing at the bottom of the stairs. I remember you standing there with a hole in your t-shirt. I stick my finger in it and tickle your tummy. I can’t help but cry, this house soon becoming just a hole where we once lived.
You were in my dream last night. I awoke with a smile on my face, so there was no doubt it was you.
I can’t recall the last time I saw you, face to face. I’ve tried and I’ve tried but it’s beyond my reach. So it must have been a long time ago. I can’t even remember the last time I thought of you, the last time I remembered a memory of you. I had almost forgotten you and what you meant to me. But as morning turns to day turns to night, I desperately grasp at that dream.