The entry fee for the jumble sale at the homeless mission costs 20 pence or a pair of men’s jeans. I don’t have a pair of jeans with me would you believe. My quiet piece of silver plinks into the plastic bucket, and I reflect what you can’t get for 20 pence these days.

We were happy people once. Not naïve, just animated, social, alive. We gathered constantly. We danced at weddings, at birthdays, at no occasion at all.

Dr Summers presses the ignition and the machine whirs to life.

I first heard of aphantasia in a writing workshop – a poet told us she didn’t see visual images in her head. I had always thought everyone didn’t.

When Mom flew off with the Canada geese you made me promise that we would never leave one another.

We walk from cane fields,
cotton in our nightshirts, sweet

faces on a school bus:
petals of flowers
unopened

midnight sun
a polar bear’s breath
catches fire

today, Christmas Eve,
my granddaughter visiting
her bright eyes – her faith