The Lamplighters

by Emma Stonex

My mother towelling my head dry with no-nonsense strokes, the rough practicality with which mothers spit on their fingers to wipe dirty mouths, impatient and concerned. Later on, she did it for my dad. He was a child by then, so I stopped being one. I grew up, grew past him.

Every week your child gets replaced by a new one, a bigger, more advanced one, and I don’t think it’s possible to retain all the personalities faithfully. It’s like knowing ten different people in the space of two years.

It’s like a bird in a bloody cage, isn’t it, it’s fine while it’s in the cage but then as soon as you let it out it sees what it’s been missing. It sees it wasn’t ever meant for this, and its wings don’t work after all.