Summer 1992

A hydraulic digger moans a straining
drone over the distant roar of a
jumbo-jet as it lifts into the sky above
Aldergrove, and Pat’s Ice Cream van
chimes with “Whistle while you work”.

Hot tarmac and diesel fumes
with a subtle hint of cold vanilla, 
raspberry and wafer on a bed
of freshly mown grass and the
faintest scent of cigarette smoke.

The sun glinting on the crime scene 
tape around the end of
our street while the soldiers and
policemen sweat in the heat 
of their body armour.

The burning in the pit of my stomach
accompanies the thud of my heart
that matches the thud of shoes on the stairs
and then the fiery burning sting of belt on
flesh, and words I wish I didn’t know assault my ears.

And deep inside this six-and-a-half
year-old, despite the ice cream — 
a pining for this years-long holiday in hell to end,
to go back to love, where the memories 
live in photographs instead.