a slightly more guttural ‘h’ than expected, a sea of darkness, bumping your head on the bathroom wall in the middle of the night, “oh, a cockroach,” the wrong remark, twice, the bump, still there, right forehead, just below the hair line, unable to just holiday, and the slight unease of a continually heated toilet seat, never making the effort to inquire about actually turning it off, and the house, more than you ever imagined, the fifth roll, and dad making a clichéd remark about young people needing to bump their heads, you sit there on the pale lilac carpet leaning against the spotless white wall, legs bent to the side, right side, left side of body against wall, jeans a bit uncomfortably tight in this position, holding the telephone to your right ear, listening to your sister cry on the other end, “don’t tell mum i’m crying.” how do you do it, drawing, a straight line first, the bottom half, then a curvy upper part with a squirt hole, “a big fish”, dad recalls yesterday today, the time there and not here, so they get there early, i get there late, ice cream served in hot baked bread, sweet in the mouth, a bitter after-taste, what were those lights, you still wonder, floating candles on a quaint little stream, but then seen from the airplane window a thousand miles away, impossible, “don’t tell mum i’m crying.” (picture edited from one of LonelyBob on flickr, may change when own film is developed)