I saw daisies on my way here. They reminded me of the summer we did nothing but sit in the field behind my house and make daisy chains; hundreds and hundreds of tiny white flowers, strung together with such care. We draped them across our shoulders, arranged them in our hair, and we danced.
I heard Duran Duran on the radio this morning. I sang along the way we used to, but I didn’t get past the second verse; I couldn’t remember the lyrics. So many sleepovers spent singing along to Hungry Like the Wolf, and I’ve forgotten the words!
Old age does that, I suppose. Bits of memories disappearing randomly. The tune is stuck in my head now; I can’t shake it.
I walked past a post box a moment ago, I stood and stared like a fool. I haven’t written to Nikki for so long; no calls or emails. We send Christmas cards, with assurances we’ll meet, but the year never seems long enough to keep those promises. An invite to her son’s wedding is sitting on my mantelpiece.
I didn’t think it would happen to us, that we’d lose touch, drift apart. This is more an abrupt halt though, I guess. The phone call that eventually came wasn’t from Nikki; it was from her son. She’d been ill; I didn’t even know.
We were Goths for a while when we were seventeen; today, black is the last colour I want to wear.
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