The Kite by Irena Szirtes

 

I was his little girl;

I was his laughter,  speaking

‘Lily of the Lavvie’ before

I knew I meant ‘Valley’;

I was his laughter,

Insisting on my ‘Lizzie Hat’,

Calling my doll ‘Gaitey’,

Imitating foghorns,

Saying ‘gongits’, my sister’s word

For iron-work on roof corners.

His words were laughter, too:

He called sleet ‘snizzle’, how

Easy to mix snow and drizzle

When English is new.

We stored, stirred, reconstituted laughter:

Often remembered the man

Who skiddled down Winder,

Sliding the scree, flailing,

Raising his hat as he racketed past,

Pretending all was well!

He let laughter explode through

His whisper,  let it ambush us:

‘Let’s wait!” he said, and how

We relished shared naughtiness

When the show-off lady plunked off the weir

Stilettos flying, her yellow blouse and

Vermilion skirt billowing, bouffant,

Like pirate sails in the Rawthey!

I was his little girl, his laughter,

So when I lost the kite he made,

When I flew it alone In disobedience,

When it snagged a tree-top,

When it flailed and flapped

Like seagull wings stricken In wire,

 I was afraid to tell.

And three days after the kite

Died impaled,  shreds blowing

And blinking from summer sun,

I came down for breakfast

When I knew he’d gone to work,

When I knew disappointment

Had walked out the door.

And then I saw a new-built kite.

It stood sharp and shiny,

As white and red and ribboned

As a Polish flag, and I knew

I was still his laughter,

Still his little girl.