She attacks the page with all the fervour & ferocity
of learning to write: ! nUmBeRs!
Her pen digs its way
through to (the other page)
as if it were trying to escape its task
make a break for it.
Finally, she draws a 2
a gentle swan gliding by on a single wave.
Then, an 8 (which she informs me)
is an O “...wearing a belt that’s too tight.”
“Right? ” “Right! ”
6 & 9 she cuddles together.
“Shhh...they’re sleeping! ”
Then: a 3 “...which is an 8 with half the 8 ...missing.”
Then: a 1 which is a man “.. with a little nose.”
Then: a 7 Which is a man “...with a big nose.”
10 is “The man with the little nose going out with an eight without its belt.”
5 is “Like a S frozen stiff.”
4 is “My hand doesn’t like writing 4’s so...it doesn’t.!
'Well, that's enough of that! '
She glares at me as if to say
'Don't dare contradict me! '
'I'm going out to play!
She proudly announces
(a woman with her work well done) .
And out... ...out she goes!
Being with Tilly as she gathered the world to her and her attempts to make the meaning of it mean something was one of the great delights of my life. It was like eavesdropping on God whilst he made the universe. I used to love to travel across the wild and wonderful emotional landscape of who she was and who she was becoming.