Sunday, teatime.

My knees were an arm rest
as I sat cross legged
on the brown carpet floor.
My palms were a chin rest
as I gazed at the television
in our Sunday routine.
The Chronicles of Narnia,
wincing at the White Witch,
heart warmed back again by Mr. Tumnus.
I was not in my living room,
surrounded by my mother’s legs
and my grandmother’s hand-lotion scent,
I was in Narnia,
slippered feet on snowy ground,
a cross between Susan and Lucy.
It was post-roast dinner,
an afternoon spent whining and impatient,
wondering why adults have to sleep
after heavy meals.
My dad washing up,
I would look out into the garden
all brackish and wintered,
and long for some snow.
In came the tray:
cheese and pickle sandwiches,
tomatoes and cucumber
to soften the crusts left on the plates,
a pot of tea.
A bowl of my other grandmother’s pickled onions.
Why are my memories of Sundays always in winter?
We ate and escaped.
I longed for Turkish Delight.