Читать книгу Paper Butterflies - Lisa Heathfield - Страница 10

Mickey and I walk side by side. The sun is warm on my face and there’s not a cloud in the sky.

‘Where shall we go today?’ I ask.

‘The fields at the back of my house?’ she replies.

‘I’d like that.’

We walk slowly – Mickey’s hip makes her seem older than she is. She shuffles slightly, the dry dust lifting around her ankles.

High above us, two birds swoop and twist before they disappear from view.

‘Birds are like memories,’ I say. Mickey chuckles. She’s used to my thoughts by now. ‘They are,’ I insist. ‘How sometimes they’re close enough to see clearly, but at other times they fly just out of reach.’

‘You’ve been reading too many books again.’

‘I can’t work out whether memories are good or bad,’ I say.

‘I suppose it depends which ones they are.’ Mickey sounds tired now. ‘Maybe you should try to remember the good and forget the bad.’

‘But sometimes even the good ones hurt,’ I tell her.

Mickey nods as she puts her hand gently on my arm.

‘Let’s make happy memories for today, then,’ she smiles.

‘How?’

‘You see those horses over there?’ She points into the distance. At first they’re difficult to see, but then the herd of them becomes clearer. ‘How about we go and ride them?’

‘They’re not ours,’ I laugh.

‘They could be if we take them.’ Mickey is laughing so hard that we have to stop walking. She leans into me as she starts to cough, but they’re happy tears in her eyes.

And I laugh with her too, the sound sweeping up to the wide blue above us.

‘It’s good to be alive,’ she says. But this time the coughing pulls at her body and I know she’s hurting. ‘Let’s go back, June,’ she says.