my younger self as my ancestor

i grieve the girl in the summer dress in late may,

i grieve the mourning doves,

i grieve the ice lolly stained teeth and the way the sun was hotter in 2005,

i grieve the dew on the grass that stuck to paddling pool legs.

i attended the funeral of a little girl

when i decided to no longer be one.

i attended the funeral of summer

sometime last november, a little

closed casket affair for something i had to freeze

in the morgue before i was ready to let go.

i mourn the tired christmases and birthdays

and the excitement of the night before.

i mourn clothes set out on bedroom floors

and perfectly-made outfits for school trips.

i mourn the entirety of primary school

and wonder if the rainbow fish works a corporate job now.

i lost my faith somewhere between the pews

of my holy communion, but i got a pretty

green set of rosary beads and a bouncy castle

and an episode of doctor who so terrifying

that i made my eldest sister sleep in my room.

i lost my other sister, with whom i talk to now on tired

christmases and birthdays, just after

she spent all afternoon completing game achievements

that my young hands and daylight-savings-attention-span

couldn’t achieve by themselves.

when i was younger, i was smaller

but the stars were closer.

when i was younger, i was barriered in suncream

and each swimming pool at a caravan resort

was the ocean in a friendly disguise.

when i was younger, i lived

a lunchables life with soft serve ice cream for dessert

every day, and it was far too beautiful

to be beautiful in anything but hindsight.

now, i check myself for wrinkles;

it’s the only time i can look in the mirror.

sometimes i see her, five or seventeen,

and i say “that’s my girl.”

i cannot let her know of the mourning that will come.

i cannot let her claim me as her future

but i will hold her soft, small palms

and pretend that i am doing the leading.

January 2022