Ratatouille

This memory is warm
and yellow. Their skin
felt like sticky velvet
as I played Jurassic
Park in the home-
grown jungle of our
vegetable patch. Stalking dinosaurs,
dodging ripe courgettes. I
pretended you were a
giant, hiding under the
canopy of the big,
floppy leaves, all I
could see were sandaled
feet and bare legs.
I tried to save
the worms from your
trowel, wriggling in my
fingertips. Or to put
two back together, dirt
under my nails. I
watched as you poked
and prodded, squeezed and
tested and emptied the
jungle. You would make
a ratatouille that night,
with the fresh courgettes.
It would be red
and green and sweet
and earthy.

Emma Swiatek

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