Lindie Heeralall

It is nighttime and the lights are on.

The 1960s table with the black fake leather chairs is in the middle of the kitchen.

The walls are covered in the old wallpaper that we all loved. It has a sepia-toned newspaper print, stuffed full of gardening news. 

The article with a picture of a plump, ripe tomato, sits below the old cream wall-phone with the long, curly wire.

The wallpaper starts to peel off the walls from the ceiling downwards. Narrow, jagged strips hang limply.

It is the end.

In waking world, the kitchen table has always been against the wall. Does sleeping mind think the table where we sat and talked so many times is too important to be shoved to the side?

‘The end of childhood.’