Manchester, 1987. It’s December, last day of term. We’re in the bathroom. My mother has me in a loving headlock and is brushing my teeth ferociously. I am seven. My older brother sits on the edge of the bath, awaiting the same violent dental cleansing. A smile spreads across his older face. He is itching with a piece of information, something he knows that I don’t, something that I simply, surely, have a right to know…
Butterfly Stitch
When you told me Father Christmas didn’t exist,
all three years older, leaning on the bath,
waiting for your teeth to be brushed,
I was secretly glad,
though Mam gave you a crack,
because there in that bathroom,
in my vest and pants, one sock, one shoe,
I grew into something older, new,
and something was removed
like a butterfly stitch
and later that day
when our teacher came and
assembled us all on the stained carpet,
and announced the arrival
of Father Christmas,
red suit too big,
pillowed belly and
cotton wool brows,
someone pulled down his acrylic beard
and revealed Mr Cohen, the head,
some cheered
and some kids cried,
but I already knew,
looked down,
realised I was wearing your shoes.
IOB 21.12.15
