Roses


When I hear those songs again they bring to mind Sunday mornings, struggling to finish homework the smell of baking your sixties albums playing in the background.


Once I returned from school with a torn jumper, you marched me to the culprit’s house, I can still remember you speechless, his mother showing you the red marks on his face where I struck him.


That seaside holiday You lied to our mother, meeting a boy from the arcade, years later I met a girl who knew him, said he didn’t make her feel like a heel in the morning.


This is how I remember you, fresh faced, eager for life, a girl who painted roses played records on Sunday mornings.


4


Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40