Little Wall
Published in “Making a Mark” anthology to celebrate Leicester Writers’ Club’s 50th anniversary.
Little Wall
“Do not fear for the child / its gold is hid“
(Jorie Graham, “Motive Elusive”)
“Daddy,” he said under his breath,
naming the voice he heard
as the door slammed.
“White,” he stroked a bar on his cot.
He liked naming things:
it made Mommy smile.
“White,” was the wall too,
Then his Mommy made a sound
he knew how to make:
he put his hand over his mouth,
clamped it tight
and tried to say “Mommy.”
He pulled himself up
so he could touch the wall.
“Window,” his fingers traced
the borders of shadow
following the outline of a pane.
There were more sounds
like the one he knew how to make.
He touched his cot bar,
that felt smooth and slightly warm.
But the wall felt different:
like Mommy’s skin when she was cold.
“Wall,” he almost sat
when it shook with a thud
like the one he heard
when he fell and hit his head.
A few white flakes drifted down.
He caught one.
“Little wall,” he looked again.
A door slammed, “Daddy gone.”
“Sssh,” there was no sound
not even the one Mommy
made when she slept.
He dropped the paint-flake
and stretched his hands
to the wall, thumbs touching,
either side of the shadow.
It looked like… like Mummy’s picture
He named it, “Butterfly.”
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