When I know Marla is asleep,
I hunt for traces of Toffee,
rummage through drawers, cupboards,
tip shoeboxes on to my lap and
scan black and white photographs,
newspaper cuttings for clues.
In the darkness,
I search through pieces of the past
to find a way to jigsaw Toffee together again,
make myself a girl who was.
Instead I find Marla –
in hats and ruffles,
hair puffed up like a well-baked sponge.
Marla with long, slim legs,
eyes bright,
mouth curled at the corners
as though suppressing laughter when the
camera
clicked.
But then one picture makes me
pause,
stare into history:
Marla is arm-linked to another girl,
both in mini-dresses,
hair to their hips,
and this girl,
Toffee it must be,
this girl,
she is me.