Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Thursday, 11 April 2013



They would come over to play, especially in the summer. Whilst my brother was busy fighting with Jimmy, I would hide under the bed with Holly. Holly and me would innocently investigate each other, and not having anyone to report to, I would mentally store my tentative findings for future reference. I don’t know what she did with hers.

I liked Holly, she had the best mouth and a soft voice. She asked me things. She never shouted or got upset like I did. She was comfort.

Her hair reminded me of breast meat on a roast, the blonde strands through my fingers instead of the tines of a fork. I knew it wasn’t complimentary to say your hair is like cooked chicken, greased as that was with connotation, but to me the thought was soft and warm and all I had for comparison. Still, I had the sense to keep my mouth shut. Not that I needed to give compliments. I was after nothing. 

I think of Holly on occasional Sundays but since my Nan died nobody cooks up that memory as much.   

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