Looking up at the sky, I remember Earth doesn’t stand still, calm and reassuring, a garden in Abinger Hammer, with afternoon tea and hedgerows,
I plug the smudged tub in our cold bathroom, open the tap, unshuck myself from my robe and wade in lumbering, seven months pregnant.
On the day my son turns sixteen, I discover the language with no word for father. He takes his presents to his room, closes