You on one side of the river, waving,
Seventies Mexican moustache hiding your sorrow.
Me on the other,
Seeing similarities during birthdays and Christmas.
We swapped swift sentiments as
We thanked you for your gifts, but
We didn’t know you and vice verse.
The painful tales about you,
Which we heard as honesty,
A mouth we were supposed to trust,
Swaying like a stacked pillar of pullovers.
We were placed in your house for a year and a half,
Maybe two, yet,
That’s not time enough to fill in the cracks
When a young mind doesn’t have the correct tools.
I then returned across the river
To more pullover lies.
Up they rose!
Their lack of footings.
Severe heartstrings and
Sad questions filled my mind,
Diluting the memory of your smiles
Bending any act of kindness to
Years limped on this way.
I turned my back to shield myself.
You probably had no idea.
Time has its own agenda.
It must open its curtains one day
To reveal a new, kinder light.
Just as a killer thinks,
Thirty years on,
That his secrets are buried,
A lie will meet her foe and
The stack will fall:
We’ve ironed the crumpled clothes
That were once strewn,
You and I.
We’ve even placed them carefully into cupboards,
Before locking the doors.
We, giggling like giddy kippers, have sifted through the silt
To see that there are golden nuggets to share.
Don’t you dare leave me to pan alone now!