by Emer Hayes
When we were younger we shared a bedroom.
We would stare all night at the plastic stars
that Dad stuck to our roof
with white sticky tape.
And we’d tell each other bedtime stories,
while basking in the yellow-green glow
Do you remember that time?
When summer hit we’d stay up till late
on the roof of our playhouse, or on the trampoline,
the one I bought with my communion money.
It now lies rusting with the docs,
somewhere at the back of the garden.
We’d leap like astronauts and pluck the stars.
Then we began to fight
and our world began to fall.
I’d keep you up at night watching TV or reading till dawn,
and you woke me each morning to prepare for choir or lessons
for instruments you no longer play
You were twelve, I think
when you decided enough was enough,
it was time to move out.
You only went to the spare room next door,
but it felt like a city away.
The stars eventually lost their glow.
I needed you to explore the constellations,
The ones only we knew.
And sneaking downstairs at night
was no longer exciting
without a fellow explorer
to make the dangerous journey
past mom and dads room.
We still talked at times;
at dinner and at church,
back when we were forced to go.
But you were there for me
When it was my turn to start secondary school.
You helped with fake tan and made me up
for those teenage discos,
a rite of passage.
And I still can’t help but think;
What if I hadn’t you to pick out my dress or do my hair?
I’m still clueless at fitting in.