The 4pm afternoon in the quickly frosting garden, a purge of the guts of the shed, was finger numbing. A crisp sky brought the beaming smile of an early moon, and his approval. 

I’d been building a small hill of bin bags of house rubbish and it was the turn of the shed. I hadn’t expected I would grow. I’d expected to wear the heavy coat of sentimentality and, somehow, guilt. But this past year I’ve been peeling off layers, painted over me by others, and I quite like the girl I’m finding underneath.  

My fingers were numb to write and now burn with the return to indoor temperatures. Old, loved but broken, scooters, a magnificent broken fire engine, torn paddling pools and deflated balls are simply gone. As are the constant criticisms of my mother. I could hear her voice each time I loaded a bag. Shouldn’t I do this?  Why would I do that? I silently, unashamedly and wildly, swore at her each time she appeared in my head.  

And I felt magnificent. The short and spectacular sunset joined the moon and we felt winter’s embrace without cares. A revelation. Fifty two years and now I’m growing? I don’t hate winter after all. I can love it when I see it with my own eyes and kiss it with my own passion.  

Love from 

The room above the garage

A Moodscope member