by Katie Ford
It was a dance fit for the end of the day. He clasped his mother’s fingers gently in his porcelain palm. Sticky. His four-year-old cheeks were pinched with a curled rustiness. With one last 1-2-3 jump she swung him into her arms, and folded them both onto the soft bed. As she breathed in the coconut from his hair, her eyes began to burn.
Katie Ford lives, works, writes and loves in the East of England. Her work (published and un-) and her irregular blog can be seen archived here.