Words by Isobel R.S. Carnegie
My grandmothers river was the colour of Coca-Cola, the dark outer rings of amber.
My room is a pocket of gold in my childhood amber bracelet; we move in this pollen hue, sunshine ray, pat of butter melting.
I told you about my grandmothers house while we looked up at the stars - while I looked up at the stars - while you looked at me. I told you how the wood smelled and what the stars were like as I raised my head from my fathers shoulder as a child. I told you about the aspens and the pines and the birches, the pink kitchen and the three carpeted steps my brother and I used to roll down.
These are fragments of a place I can no longer go to: deep in me, holding me up, in the marrow of my self.
I didn’t tell you I wish you could have seen it. Seen the amber river and the pink kitchen, the trees. The stars.