Redundant things have a way of sticking with us. The small metal film canister, silvered with age, filled with coins for shopping trolleys. The plastic box of floppy disks full of words I will never use again. The memories that plague me on nights that I can’t sleep. How, at midnight, I packed up my bag and rode fast down Barry Drive, for once empty of noise, to start again. And, later, how you drew me into you under a grove of pines, singing and breathing with the waving trees above us, rain and dark closing the distance, falling deep and long into the warm forest until neither of us could let go.
By Stephanie Green