Oil

She absolutely swears

that she will always hold my hand

the promise of a seven-year-old

as solemn as they come

 

we walk along together

singing horribly

while birds look down on us

frowning in silence

 

she wants to see my childhood

my places and beginnings

we turn right at the end of the road

“Is that it?”

 

the stream is just a trickle now

oily water, dirty rainbows

our muddy footprints long forgotten

“That’s it.”

 

I talk of our adventures

hoping to widen her eyes

I tell her of spitting contests and penknives

blackberries and blood brothers

 

I show her where we rode our bikes

the trees we climbed

we, perched high above the earth

with only sky around us

 

but the hills were low

and the trees were too

and the oil from the stream

was everywhere

 

I tell her that we should go back

my parents, shrunken by gravity

by time

will be waiting

 

we come to a wall

it is high and we stand in its shadow

I try to find my name on it

she looks up

 

“That’s a high wall Dad.”

“I jumped off it once, a long time ago.”

she pulls her hand away

uses it to point

 

“You jumped off that?!”

saucer eyes, open mouth

and for a moment I forget

how everything is smaller now