My Life in Words 2. Youth

Life was the truck I fell under at 12,

watching the massive tyres

travel inexorably over my leg;

moving my head back out of the way 

just in time – damage, but not annihilation.

It was that unit, my parents, cracking (like my shin).

My scars were from being uprooted,

transplanted far from the enchanted island

into a desert. Monster stepmother –

mad, drunken, jealous – persecuted me

and tortured my little brother,

whom I failed to protect. 'But,' I tell myself,

'I was only 15.' He was 11. 

The adored father proved weak.

The mother and loving stepfather,

back on the island, couldn't believe;

staged no rescue. But at least

we had holidays there: respite.

My brother, now 73, still can't talk about it.

After two years we got away

to the Big City which folded us in, becoming

our dear home town for decades.

University for me, and later for him

(meanwhile new school – our father 

did that much, seeing by then how crucial). 

And our new home in a safe suburb

with my favourite uncle and aunty. 

Her big smile, her welcoming arms. 

I walked straight into them

forever, my 'second mother'.

Later the women's hostel in the city,

then independence: a shared house close to Uni.

Finding again the stepsister who, 

hating her mother, was always my friend. 

Study, study, study, no money.

But when I went home for holidays

back to the island, I was now the glamorous

out-of-towner (mainlander). That was good.