I always forgot that the bump was coming. The little humpback bridge on the road to The Wharf. The one that sent your stomach into your throat, that had my sister and I whooping in the back of the car, small hands clutching the seats, convinced we had momentarily left the ground.
I could believe we were flying back then. When you’re small everything seems bigger, faster, brighter than life. Granddad’s driving was like that for us. Bug eyed at seventy on the speedometer. We thought that was the fastest that anyone could possibly ever go. He was wild and exciting, not like those fuddy-duddies crawling along at twenty down the A41.
He doesn’t take the bridge as fast as he used to. Now that I’m older, I think he only sped up for my sister and I, to make us smile and shriek. A lot of what he did when we were small was to make us laugh. We were his princess, and he was out merrymaker.
‘Gone to see a man,
about a dog’ he’d tell us.
Greying with winter.
Tonight’s prompt was to write a Haibun based on a childhood memory. I wasn’t sure if I was going to partake with this one as last week I wrote a couple of poems rooted in my childhood, and I try not to write to vary my topics when I write poetry or I end up writing the same thing.
In the end I chose a memory that hasn’t shown up in any of my poems yet. At this rate you’ll soon be able to piece together my whole childhood just from the poetry section on this blog!