What I remember so vividly, was an ivy draped house, cherry blossom biscuits, fresh kissed from the oven; our mosquito wed skin that licked the autumn air so quickly we would itch for days.
My sister, whispering stories, sticky from giggles and jam, of evenings coloured with imaginary characters – men whom we imagined dressed like millionaires, and women who smiled bright pearls.
We listened, between the cracks in the door that we dared not enter.
We attended their parties, solved their mysteries, stole their riches – never so much as dipping our toes in the world outside of the beauty we created.
On afternoons that we breathed quietly, and we would watch the birds in the yard, drinking cool lemonade flavoured with mint, fresh picked from the garden.
Days spent dreaming of loving.