The wide windows are shut tight
but much cleaner up close than they seem from the
end
of the garden.
With cupped hands against the back door,
I peer into the kitchen:
brown cupboards and a tin draining board
make it look like it was built before I was born,
and on the hob, a kettle.
A kettle boiling,
whistling for someone to
come quick, come quick,
and stop the steam from screaming.
Then I see her,
emerging from behind the fridge door,
face fragile and
filled with fear
when she spots me.
We stare.
And do not move.