Pork Sausages

I am not yet tall-table high. Mum turns up the blue flames, lowers the thick sausages, dripping crackles, the iron skillet is licked fat. The meat finds its voice, a splutter of buttery smaze, the pork is in bloom, the animal inside the flesh disappearing, the meat opening florets of aroma. A drool forcing sizzle, makes wet lips chew air. Mother turns, cheeks flushed, not looking at me. Say’s “He will love these.” A flash in the pan, a gutted put-down, and me too low to see over myself.