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Miranda R Waterton's avatar

When I look at pictures of myself as a child

I see so much that I still carry.

The downward gaze

The anxious little please-don’t-hate-me smile.

Shoulders shrugged and stiff,

one foot placed slightly ahead of the other

in a clumsily coquettish pose.

The boyish bob, because nobody wanted to play with my hair

or with me, for that matter.

The little grown-up fully formed,

Primed not to take up too much space,

The only defiance a turning away

to a daydream, a doll or a book.

When I look at pictures of my grand-daughter

what stands out is the openness of her smile, her body, her innocent gaze,

Excited by each fresh encounter

with the loved familiar

or the completely strange

The confidence that all she has to do or say is interesting

enough for somebody to listen with unfeigned enthusiasm.

The readiness for a ride in the bicycle-basket of life,

pedalled ahead by her mother’s smile and steadied by her hand on the handlebars,

A view of the road ahead into a world where she’s allowed to take up space,

with a shoulder to bury herself in just for fun, or closeness,

or occasional comfort,

whenever she feels herself not-quite-whole.

She doesn’t need to give the illusion

that she can figure it all out herself.

She’s never going to be certain, first time,

exactly how the pieces fit.

But nor is anybody else.

The fun is in the puzzling

and if she gets it wrong at first,

nobody’s going to tell her off.

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Margaret O'Brien's avatar

There was a yard in front of the rural cottage we lived in from when I was aged six to about nine. Hens pecked their way around it during the day, Rhode Island Reds going, 'Bok awk, bok, bok' and then teasing us by sometimes 'laying out', meaning we would have to search the surrounding fields for their eggs. Enclosing the yard in a horseshoe shape were some sheds and outhouses, dusty relics of past labour. In one of the sheds I can remember seeing tiny chicks hatch one night by the light of my dad’s torch, all yellow and fluffy, pecking their way out of their shells. Most of the outbuildings were missing a door, or the door hadn’t been closed in years. In one we had a swing, where we could aim to reach the swallows nesting high in the rafters if we kicked off powerfully enough. In another there was an old timber cart, with its shafts for the horse pointing up towards the spider-busy rafters. In the cart itself was an old mattress. We played all kinds of games there, my brothers and I, far from other children over the summer holidays from school. We built imaginary, to us ‘real’, worlds that had us occupied and absorbed for hours. One afternoon visitors arrived and the children tumbled out of their car and came over to us in the barn. They asked us what we were doing. We stood around self-conscious and foolish, suddenly tongue-tied and awkward in the face of their fresh-faced townie curiosity. Our make-believe world had instantly dissolved. @margaretwriting

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