The conkers fell,
crashing to the ground and shaking off their
tough-on-the-outside,
velvety-on-the-inside
shells.
I begged Kelly-Anne to walk with me to the park
so I could gather a bagful
and take them to school
to boast about I-don’t-know-what.
Dad stood up from the couch. I’ll come for some air.
Kelly-Anne beamed;
it was before
he started treating her really badly,
and I was probably pleased too.
Dad never went anywhere with us
unless it was somehow about him –
a trip to Homebase for paint
or the Chinese for dinner.
It was drizzling at Downhills Park.
You could spot the chestnut trees easily,
brown-leaved against a sky of still greens.
I sprinted.
I foraged.
My bag filled quickly with the
chocolatey brown globes,
but I was greedy for more
and more
and more,
crawled my way beneath briars to trawl.
I didn’t see the stinging nettles,
didn’t notice the blanket of them
or that my hands, knees and legs tingled,
until it was too late,
until my body was covered in their toxins
and I was scratching, scratching,
spotting uncased chestnuts but too sore
to collect them.
Oh, you poor thing, said Kelly-Anne,
kneading my hands with dock leaves.
Dad was grinning.
Even I spotted the nettles.
You’re too old to be collecting conkers anyway.
I was eleven.
At twelve
I didn’t bother
collecting conkers come September,
and when I was thirteen I told
anyone who flaunted theirs
how stupid and babyish they were
until they hid their treasure
or threw them away entirely.