Pick a name, Any Name.


”Iawn Lei?” you’d say to me when I entered your kitchen.  With your fag in your mouth, the ash as long as the fag itself,  having not dropped at all.  That was a skill right there, Flo!

“Lei la lei la lei la lo” you’d sing to babies, swinging them from left to right at the same time.

I sang it to my bois bach on a number of occasions, thinking of you the whole time.  Also thinking of what you’d make of my babies.  Loving on them just like you did everyone else,  no doubt.

I wonder if you’d be shoving fags into their 13 year old hands saying “Cyma fo!  Take it!  Of course you smoke” like you used to do to me.  Along with some money and a packet of crisps.

I’d love to spend a few hours with you now just chatting and telling you how I can finally knit!  All that time we sat in front of the fire, watching ‘Pobl y Cwm’ and you teaching me to knit?  It finally paid off.  All those times you fed me the creamiest mash ever?  Mine will never be the same but sometimes, just sometimes, it’s very nearly there.  And all those times we laughed when you’d hitch your skirt up and warm your backside on the roaring fire in the living room?  I get it Flo bach, I so bloody get it.

Lei la lei, indeed


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