Charlotte x

Mummy, can my friend please come for tea?
I know I have my sister, but she is only three!
I can't to talk her about her about music, or singers that I like,
She still plays with dolls and can't yet ride a bike.
And another thing mum, she keeps on breaking my things,
She talks too much and rhymes are all she sings.
Please mummy, let my friend come for tea,
Because we're the same size and she can sit next to me.

A few years have passed and not much has changed,
But me and my sister have grown and our room's been rearranged.
She rides her bike with her friends and they laugh at me when I pass,
'Just you wait till you get home' I spit, 'I'm gonna kick your arse!'

I'm now in my early twenties, with a child of my own,
And all I feel in recent times is down, scared, alone.
My friends don't understand my troubles and that really hurts,
Even my little sister is out socialising at parties and concerts.

Life has now moved on, and lessons have been learned,
And after four years of parenthood, my happiness returned.
My parents I should thank, for giving me a friend,
Who hugged me when I cried and on whom I can depend.
I wish I could go back and say sorry, make things right,
But I think she's already forgiven me, for she is coming here tonight.
Yes my little 'Big' sister will be joining us for tea,
And I have laid a place for her, right here next to me.

xxx

Colour

I have seen you here before and as always you are grey. I stand behind you in the queue and the emptiness that fills you seeps from your skin and singes my nostrils. My stomach lurches, so I breathe through slightly parted lips.

The bulge of your middle wobbles with each uninspired step and your arms lay heavy by your side. To swing them would bring attention. Colour. You have not always walked this way, but life has not been kind to you. Your hair is a reflection of yourself - grey, short, blunt. Unloved.

Stains display themselves like a portfolio of meals eaten over time and your trainers, with laces pulled tightly, have seen better days. While I was behind you I heard you humming a tune and it was nice. I don't know what it's called but I got the impression it takes you back to your better days. Colour.

I see a child equally as stained and unkempt, tugging on the sleeve of your sun bleached coat and you smile at him. Colour. He is relentless in his quest for a hit of sugar from the sweet machine and as usual you are too tired to fight, you give in. The story of your life. He gobbles up the little rainbow and enters the lions den with determination and gusto, navigates his way over obstacles and snarls his sweet stained teeth at his fellow Sleeve Tuggers.

I watch as you walk to a table, to rest your lead limbs. Next to you sits the mother of the Sleeve Tugger. She does the telling off and is the apple that didn't fall far from the tree. With the same grey look, she sees the world through colour blind eyes, framed by dark puffy circles that teeter on the edge of sunken cheeks. She sits with her stocky arms folded across her bulging tummy, like huge gates keeping love, faith, anger, sadness, all colours locked away. It's safer there.

Yet you all come here week after week and I can't help but wonder why? This place is noisy, full of energy and innocence. I see you looking at your Grandchild who tugs at your sleeve and he has climbed to the top. He calls for you, waving his arms, swaying and swinging them 'Look at me! Look at me!' And then I see it. I understand that he is your second chance. He is your chance to make up for your mistakes and for you to have better days. For you to have colour.