Laid on her bed
the breeze soft on her shoulders,
she heard his voice out the window talking to a neighbour
and jumped up to see him.
Moonlight shone on Papa’s dreadlocks.
A forgotten memory caught in her chest.
One from when she was four,
of waiting to see him arrive home
through the living room window.
Each day felt like a week then.
Now each day felt like a second.
‘Goodnight,’ he called.
She repeated, ‘Goodnight.’
When she curled back on top of the duvet, knees to her chest
she felt like a little girl.