Inner child

I was organising my paperwork and found a set of old photos. In it was a picture taken of me as a little girl. There I was frozen in black and white in the middle of Trafalgar Square somewhere in the 1970s. I was holding hands with my mum on one side and my aunt on the other. My mum looked all glam in what I know was a Burgundy suede coat and a short brown wig. She wore lipstick back then. She was smiling wide, her right arm outstretched with a flurry of pigeons feeding from her palm.

I was offered seeds from the man taking the photo and recall wondering maybe for a
spilt second, if I really should let those birds stand on me. Throwing my seed offering to the ground I chose the familiarity of my mother's palm, and my aunt chose mine. Whatever happened now, I knew I was safe.

I looked at the rest of the picture. We were stood with a circle of birds around our feet. Palms. Ground. Those birds were content. Behind us curved stone steps, white buildings and more pigeons. I never noticed my aunt had a row of about four birds along the entire length of her left arm. She too wore a wig, but hers was higher than the short cropped look of my mum. Her smile suggested that she was not so easily pleased with life or maybe she had just seen more.

I love that little girl in the picture. Eyes all shiny, high cheeked, close-mouthed smile. If she were mine I would show her her worth everyday. I hope she's proud of me. I hope I haven't been too silly; let her down too much. I hope at least some of the lessons she came into this physicality to learn have actually been learnt.

She is mine tho, and I'm glad. If she could see me I hope she would wear that same satisfied smile and feel as safe holding my hand. When I think of my inner child now, I will think of her.