The sound of a car,
Tiptoeing on a stool to look out window,
Realising she has arrived to take me home.
Running from kitchen to hide under the brass bed -
For decades every brass bed would make me think of this one.
Dropping to hands and knees,
Then flattening to fit under the bed,
I push backwards until I am in the far corner.
Wondering when they will find me,
I wait silently.
Under the bed refusing to move,
Two sets of feet,
Arguing,
will he stay or leave.
Watching feet with intent,
Willing himself to stay -
a three year old bending the world to his wishes.
There is one more day with Granny,
Before we inherit this house and bed.
