A Letter For B

D’you remember how it felt

sitting on that rock – the big one –

on top of the hill? The freedom

of falling through stiff blades of

grass. The green stains on pale

knees. Pale legs bruised by mud and

new white trainers ruined within a

few days. Your dad would yell

- til his lungs gave out and you’d run,

run so far you felt that freedom again. I’d

wait by the rock, hoping you were Ok –

knowing you rarely were. But at school

you seemed canny happy – tag, bulldog, footy.

When you got home you’d leave again,

come find me. I never turned you away,

but I never asked you to stay. We were

kids back then, just started in year 5, when I

realised the yellow-brown on your arms

weren’t from falling down. Weren’t from jumping

off the rock. You told me you were fine. You told me

you were fine. It was just one time. Until it was the last.

You left that day in year 11 – big smile on your face.

I didn’t understand. The 53 was crowded, you

said you’d rather walk. I said OK, I’d see you

the next day. But the police at my door,

asking questions I couldn’t answer, said you’d

ran away. I’ve heard nothing since. I miss you.

And if you ever need me, I’ll be waiting by our rock.