I remember sitting on my father’s shoulders
watching the millenium fireworks
from one unknown bridge or another.
I remember being wrapped up in a pram
with my brother, a plastic cover
keeping away the rain
and the deep rumbles of summer fireworks
as they unleashed their burning colours
and showered down their embers on those below.
I remember the three of us, like musketeers,
crawling inside a duvet cover
and playing ant colonies.
I remember climbing across
the banisters when there was a knock
at the door, so the unsuspecting
guest would think I was an acrobat.
I remember when the knock
at the door was a policeman, bearing
I don’t remember what happened next.
I remember staring at a ceiling
that wasn’t my own.
I remember playing with the hand sanitizers,
I remember the picnics in Queen Square
and running along the little flower bed walls.
I remember creeping up the stairs to smell your
dressing gown, the smell of you.
I remember Aileen, who cut me an apron
of my own and took me on her ward rounds.
I remember that you can’t light seven
candles in a hospital room.