Last night, for the first time in nearly a thousand years, I slept with my mother. I recognised her by her voice – clear and soft as meltwater.
“You remind me of my father” she said.
“I remember him” I replied with a wry smile, “He was no oil painting.”
We did it there by the river in the dark with the faint smell of wood-smoke from the fire that had nearly gone out and the sound of the night-birds in the trees.
But it was so long ago that I barely remember.
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