Etched in my memory is 13 Lowfield Road.
Too young to understand or judge, writing to you I sent my letters.
Kept in your pocket one after another, and I kept writing.
On the day you died one arrived, but you will never know.
Rolling your ciggies, sitting close, sneaking out of mass for a half.
13 Lowfield Road.
Walking past the letter box, I think of you.
With nowhere to send my letters.
Kind and gentle you were.
Never speaking, always words on a page, and how at ten I never knew.
News of your passing met with tears and misunderstanding.
No more letters would I send.
Sitting on your couch I see you rolling your cigarettes, and a ten-year old
beside you.
There’s a stale smell of smoke, braces and a stick, but they don’t see you like I do.
13 Lowfield Road, the place I sent my letters.
© Felicity Fox
