By Eleanor Watkinson, with commentary from Katie Simpson
Do you remember how you used to ride my scooter?
Gallantly charging, arms bent like it was a Harley.
We sang about the sun’s hat
and tutted at the tulips for being tardy.
Do you remember when you let me do your makeup
And my hand shook as I painted your face?
I brushed and blushed you back to life, and rouged
your lips so they could, in turn, tattoo my face.
Do you remember telling me of your adventures
Or teaching me all those olden day tunes?
Now I’m older, I wish I had let you tell me more
instead of getting you to tie my shoes.
Do you now remember when you began to forget
and started making my tea without sugar?
I drank it anyway. Every cup you gave me.
And I never asked why you made me another.
I bet you remember your stories now,
leaning against a cloud kitchenette.
And I must keep on telling our tales
in case, I too, start to forget.