My son is watching TV, using a chair in all the wrong ways, legs kicking at the ceiling while his tender body lies at right angles on crisp-crumbed carpet. He is five and a Tupperware box full of beloved things.
He is telling me the names of all the dinosaurs, not just his favourite ones but all of them, as all of them are the best and they lived a really long time ago and some of them ate leaves but some of them ate each other, which is gross but they didn’t have anyone to cook them dinner so it’s okay. No one knows why dinosaurs aren’t around anymore, but some people think that a big meteor hit the Earth and that smashed them all to bits but as we have the moon now, meteors aren’t so much of a problem. Bits of dinosaur can still be found to this day. They are called fossils and there are curly ones and big ones like at the museum and ones that can be found at the beach. Can we go to the beach? It doesn’t matter if it’s raining. Or that we live in Reading. Dinosaurs could have lived in our house once. Dinosaur means terrible lizard or great lizard, which doesn’t make any sense.
I pick him up with tiny arms. Lift him high. We roar together, for as long as he lets me hold him.
Zoë Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England, who loves exploring the mythical within the mundane. Forward Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her work can be found in publications such as Frazzled Lit, Roi Fainéant, and Citywide Lunch. As a stubborn FND sufferer, Zoë balances her creative life with playing wheelchair rugby league. Follow her on X @MeanerHarker, where she’s always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.
No comments:
Post a Comment