This is what happens if you don’t throw your crisp packets in the bin, Natasha

I live on the streets in between the cracked slabs, in the black oil stains under cars. I race along double yellow lines, soothe a pigeon’s gnarled foot and wrap around the homeless woman’s sleeping bag to give what warmth I have. I take a flying cartwheeling and occasionally aerial journey in a crisp packet and then helicopter away, intending for the ether but ending up in an eye.

Natasha wipes her eye. Under her lid is the scrape of grit or some other irritant.

She was on her way to the nail bar, her head full of what the hell Wayne’s last text meant and whether to wear the red or the pink dress tonight. But now there is something in her eye.

Part of Natasha’s brain is worrying her mascara will run or that her eye might be bloodshot and that she must remember to buy a new pair of tights for tonight. But that part is quite small. Another primal area is recognizing there is a foreign body around her eyeball, something wrong, something alien. Tear ducts and blink reflexes kick in. However, the majority of Natasha’s mind is shifting, reconfiguring, reforming. She opens her mouth, breathes in, then exhales, laughing at all sensations.

Seven seconds ago I was riding an air current after a lift in a crisp packet, now I am embodied.

Natasha’s memories; how to walk, why Wayne’s no good for her, GCSE French, are all accessible like some wonderful eccentric library. Natasha smiles more widely than usual.

This is going to be fun.

Special Friends

Dear All

Firstly, thank you. I acknowledge that many of you are self-made. I stand at the side-lines watching you grow and then get all the credit, which must be irritating. My interfering is one of the reasons we fight so much. That said, a number of you are clumsy, a few of you are infuriating and several of you will never work. But I want you to know I take responsibility for your weaknesses as much as I celebrate your strengths. I regard you all as more than friends, as family.  Despite our struggles you are all special to me. You have given me purpose and for that I am extraordinarily grateful.

  Secondly, I apologise. I’m sorry I haven’t given you wider lives, and you are right to feel confined and constricted. I should have tried harder on your behalves, found you homes, been more proactive and pushy and just pushed you out. Blame it on laziness and fear.
  A few of you, at least, have made it out into the world. I trust those of you who have flown the nest are more fulfilled than your less successful siblings. I hope you are appreciated and listened to.
  I’d like to say to those of you still imprisoned, this has no bearing on what you mean to me and how I value you. As you are still in my care, I worry about you more, for better or worse, you are still my responsibility.

  I confess there are more of you than I can count and I’m embarrassed that I can’t always recall the oldest of you, but when I see you, of course I remember.
Whether you’re seventeen syllables or 80,000 words, you’re all my children. And whether you’re in the local paper, blog or just on a memory stick or scrap of paper, I appreciate what you’ve given me. Maybe when I’m old and embrace the grey I’ll break my own rule and self-publish. Because although my reason is to write, I recognise that your reason is to be read.

Yours, as always,
Kath