I’m about to clean a seat for myself but then I look at you, and your face asks me what the fuck? A fair point. What The Fuck indeed. So I sit down. I feel my bony arse sinking into the wet mud. I feel wet leaves clambering and invading through my jeans. I’m glowing everywhere except where I connect with the ground, and it feels very cold and shivery around that area. Rather than stand up and reject it; I remain and absorb it.
I look up and realise the trees haven’t grown that much. At midday, on a cold winter January, the sun still (just) reclines in the crook of the baby oak. Why haven’t you grown? Well, of course you haven’t. I thump my heel into the concrete floor. You can’t grow like the rest. You live in a man-made hardship. And, in that context, I can’t help but respect you.
Keep growing. I stroke the slimy, knotted bark. Keep fighting.
*
Earlier that day we had returned. Looking for an unfinished canvas, we found a sheet of blank, torn up paper. Our childhood was gone. I ran across the dusty debris of junk and knelt by a cluster of frozen bricks looking for my messages. As a kid I had braved myth and rumour to chalk my tag on these meaningless red notepads. Now they lay in pieces, broken up and exposed to the elements, washing them clean.
I slumped down. Where are my records?
My echoes?
jimmi campkin 