December 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
Pushing her mother through long uninteresting corridors, pink as stale marshmallows, she is 5 again hitching a ride home from school on top of a slate grey pram with shining spoked wheels. The child sees the mother, sees the chestnut hair that has been shampooed, set and brushed into soft waves, soft waves that on looking down are now colourless and threaded darkly. Dazed by the frame of time and the turn of their roles, her skin is becoming cold and translucent, her body hollow. No blood, no bone, while the pace of their progress remains unchanged.