A balcony, brandy, and a family holiday in Corfu age 17.

A balcony is morning;
a breakfast of torn fresh white bread, with sesame
and cream cheese. Jarred jam of
forest fruits bleeding purple and hitting
sweet and sour notes.
We walk over the hill behind our apartment,
and try to remember the lyrics to 'Colorado'
by Manassas. Skinny cats dart
out of bushes, slinky and streetwise.
We swim. Pine needles fall like soft pins
around the pool and we think about
cider, and feta cheese.
There is the clink of china outside
in hot sun, and
the ruffle of napkins.
A balcony is drying swimwear,
halter-necks swaying in a
warm breeze,
my childhood swimming towel slumped
over a railing, faded tutti-frutti colours.
We fizz local brandy, Metaxa,
with cheap lemonade in self-catering cups,
and watch the sun winch down the sky,
a bold orange sinking,
letting out soft pink veins that swarm in the clouds.
Dad and I play a game of guessing song intros,
while Mum reads. She is cool
and beautiful
in a tie-dye sarong and her arms
are nut-brown from the day.
A balcony is getting ready for our evening meal;
we have picked a restaurant with friendly waiting staff,
who give us free kumquat liqueur;
a kindness we are not used to.
We get changed, Metaxa swilling in our
hot, easy heads,
and I decide against jewellery because it is
just
too
hot.
The drying towels wave us goodbye
as we track the pathway down the hill,
side-stepping squashy fallen fruit
and laughing at something Dad said
about a fig.
I already know I want a cool, crisp Amstel lager
which they will give to me in a girly, stemmed glass,
my Dad a pint.
Mum will have wine,
and I will not yet understand why. Wine is still vinegar
to my teenage tastes.
Evening food smells rise like steam off tar
and beckon us into gazebo gardens.
We push on,
looking in a window at a bracelet
we will buy for my sister,
then take our seats with growly tummies,
ready for the local catch.