In the bottom of your dresser lived a biscuit tin. It always had the biscuits in.
Which is weird because they normally don’t.
Your room was cramped. It didn’t bother me though.
I think it was as small as a closet; one bed, one table, a dresser by the window.
It was warm from the light stepping through the window.
My parents sat on a chair, or maybe a bed, and talked to you.
You must have been alone. Your husband had passed.
Your kids were far away but my dad always went to see you.
There was shortbread. There might have been other biscuits too, but I only remember the shortbread.
My dad bakes shortbread. And Ha’penny stick. He does it to honour you.
I don’t really remember you. I can’t picture your face or recall the sound of your voice.
I know you were kind, but you were old. I didn’t much like old people, they always smelled.
I went to your funeral when you died. I had never been to one before.
My whole family came to say goodbye. Some people I knew and some I didn’t.
My mum made me wear a dress; I had tights on and black patent-leather Mary Janes.
We stood outside the door on a concrete pavement, waiting to go in.
I had a purple drink bottle with a pink lid. It was square and small.
It’s pretty silly to have a square drink bottle; they don’t make cupholders square.
It had water in it, it always did. After you drank from it, the lid squealed ever so quietly.
If the lid was closed just right, it sprayed water back on your face and I liked that.
Maybe that’s gross. I guess it was spit.
That’s what Auntie Jenny said – she said my drink bottle was spitting.
I think she was being funny and well meaning, but it sounded like I was being told off.
My drink bottle shouldn’t be spitting because we were at a funeral.
Everyone went to my house afterwards. Everyone.
Maybe my dad invited them, or maybe they just decided
in that entitled way families often do.
I felt small and scared.
Why’d you have to die? Why’d we have to go to your funeral?
Why did everyone have to be in my house?
I told my mum I was worried the house would burst at the seams.
She laughed at me. I was being serious.
In my room, I hid.
My sister found me; she would have been about as old as I am now. She comforted me.
I had my Ted. His name was Ted because he was a teddy bear.
I can’t recall where he came from, only that his shirt was striped and he wore overalls.
They had a bear on the pocket, as they should. His fur was the colour of Werther’s Originals.
My sister talked to me and kept me company in our house full of strangers.
In the bottom of my wardrobe lives your biscuit tin. The biscuit tin has colouring books in.
Which is normal for that kind of biscuit tin, but weird because it shouldn’t.