August Holiday

The sun is sharp.
Its pale lemon colour belies its intensity. Its heat striking at my skin.
The sea glitters briefly before the sky becomes overcast again.
Grit under my finger nails.
Delicate traceries of salt.
The pale fat of my own legs, marbled with blue and purple veins.

She tries to look at me.
Her voice is thick with held back tears and breaks slightly.
"We just don't know Catherine.
We don't know what to talk to you about any more.
You don't talk about anything else."

And I know that she is right.

I have forgotten myself.
And I don't know how to talk to her either.
I am too sad.
I am envious and over-protective
Of her as yet unblemished life.
Her wedding.
Her children yet to come.

Georgina. Jessica. My twins.
My ever-fixed mark.
My thoughts spark off on other trajectories, away from them.
But by the time the fuse sputters out.
I am back. My daughters.
My heart rises to my lips. Slowly. Unintentionally.
Yet it rises.

The memory of a small child clings so steadfastly to my chest.
At my heart. At my breast.
But I cannot nourish her.

I bring her here.
I hold her out to be seen, although to what end I am not certain.
I try to nurture her with words, to resuscitate her.
Pump a little blood, stir a small breath.
But she does not breath, she does not grow.

She does not change. Ash to ash to ash to ash.
I do not change either, it would appear.

I am wistful.
Wanting.
Comfort-less.

One child so defiantly, recklessly alive.
One so very, very dead.

Silence.
A holiday.
In August.