Sawdust

So much has happened since

but once, I sat on his lap

smelling sawdust

in the wool of his jumper

we would do puzzles together

he, waiting for me

to find the answers

 

my heart was bright red

the world was small and new

there was a noise in the chimney

distant, growing closer

I thought it was a lost shooting star

and it could have been

then

 

it was a bird, frightened and panicked

we tried to help it

to guide it back outside

it couldn’t see that

instead, it flew into walls and window panes

leaving prints of black and red

 

the world is bigger now

and older

and better

and worse

sometimes, somehow, on silvery breezes

there is the smell of sawdust

sometimes I look out bus windows

and, at the edge of my vision

I see prints of black and red

there is more of everything

and everyone

and there is reassurance in knowing

that swarming insects

never collide