“She was Jeannie, my mother’s sister, short where my mother was tall, and rounder. She wore a navy blue swimsuit, pinched tight at her waist, wide on her hips, and when she lifted me on to the bench I saw the soft jolt of her breasts and a sudden plump whiteness where the sun wouldn’t reach her. I stopped crying and stared. She plucked the snot from my nose with her fingers and dabbed my eyes with a towel. You’ll live, she told me. My knee was grazed and gritted with sand. A trickle of blood rol...led down my shinbone, and as she cleaned me with water lukewarm from a bottle I gazed at her breasts and said, I wish you weren’t just my auntie. Do you? she asked. Who would you like me to be then? My mum, I told her. Jeannie pressed my leg dry with the towel, and quietly said, You already have a mum, Paul. Outside my grandfather coughed; I heard the whirr of the line that tethered my kite to his deckchair. In the family it was said that my mother had gone or passed on or been taken, though my father had once said taken herself.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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