It falls so lightly
The scissors glide through the piece of cloth on the dining table,
the material falls so lightly to either side, down onto the floor, before
mother picks it up and places the pattern over it. Outside it is raining,
it falls so heavily over the tricycle which has its front wheel
sunk deep in the puddle. I sit quietly with a slice of bread
and a glass of milk, mother has pins in her mouth, soon the material
will be cut into pieces. I know this is a critical moment, no point
in going out in weather like this. I sit waiting anxiously to see if she has
cut correctly while she tells me as she has done so many times before
about my father pretending to fight the boy next door, John, just before
he was fetched by the police. I think this was long ago, but I find it easy
to think about death when the scissors glide through the cloth. A wrong cut
and all will have been in vain. I drink some milk and eat a slice of bread
and cheese, no one can go out in weather like this. I would never
get to play with John, he died in the gas chamber.
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