Brightlingsea

I don’t want to leave. I want to keep on walking, past every beach hut until the sun sets. Then find myself at the harbour chippy, queue for ten minutes before eating my chips, while I swing my legs sitting on a wooden anchor far too small for me. Ten more minutes and I’ll be home. Granny’s old house with a karaoke machine in the cupboard under the stairs. I’ll have a bath and ponder using the pumice stone like I always did. My evening will be spent drinking tea from a mug with a watercolour rabbit and fox gloves on the side, and eating toast, barely toasted, smothered in margarine. Later than bedtime I’ll crawl into the single bed that no longer seems so high and fall asleep; a windowsill adorned with teddies my uncle won at the Summer fair, above my head.

© Kristiana Reed 2018

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