I remember Dawn sneaking through the green shutter, gently posing
its shiny stardust touch all over the place.
We were sitting in the tiny kitchen/; me, mum and my brother, waiting
for the daily ritual to come.
I cannot remember what we said and if we said anything to each other.
I surely remember we had never been as united as in that moment.
The coffee whistles while we stare at dad painting yellow waves with
yolks, before plunging them into the black boiling sea.
We were humble disciples daily struck by the Shaman’s magic in the
poor childhood house.
My senses enchanted by the unexpected blend, a rapture birding us
towards spring blessing.
I remember peach blossom raining down the tree around which we
played, long walks along daisy fields.
A starry night cycling with mum while fireflies lit the night on; the red
velvet fairytales book she used to read us in bed.
Then we left the poor house and its wooden shutters. Sun ceased to
shine and died.
Wealth came stealing us happiness and unity.
The new decent house: a mile and thousands of light years away from
the old one. It’s walls soaked with silence, our room’s windows shut in
the morning, darkness all over.
I was poor once. I wish I was, still.
Read more stories from people who have worked with English PEN over the last year.