Painting with mum

My knees wear the dirt like a second skin, bruised to the bone, bright as bitten apples. You press your thumb to my wrist, her laughter, once light, now flickers in the air— a kiln and the clay, forever bound. But the kiln runs cold, the clay cracks wide, her voice, once honey-thick, now thins to thread. She curls inward, brittle as paper skin, her hands, once rooted, now waver like reeds. Black branches, draped in quiet decay, whisper the slow unbinding of a once-nurturing bloom. Blurry and bright, like the mornings she zipped my coat, but the puddles still hold my face— the colours bled before they dried, blue on your hands, red on mine. Mylie gnawed the table, and time settled like ash in the gaps of her fingers.