Greensleeves by Zoe Davis

You always woke me with a song, the opposite of a lullaby, gently crooned as darkness swept away, presenting gifts of light and air and your smile, always your smile. It was so imperfectly perfect, a small wobble of puckered skin just above your Cupid’s bow— a scar from climbing trees when you were eight. So many adventures. So many bruised elbows and scuffed knees from listening to a soft rebel heart that would not be tamed.

Even as we aged, I remained forever young in your eyes. I never told you, but your wrinkles were beautiful to me, each line a brushstroke of visible memory. Whenever I saw you, I embraced that kind, parental caress, encouraging me to dance in front of the mirror so there would be a thousand tiny mes, glittering, spinning, with no obvious direction— not that you cared. You adored my chaos, as you saw yourself in every lofty pirouette and humble bow. Poised, head held high, arm strained heavenward, my posture was perfect, but your delight sparked in that gentle adjustment, both of us pretending that you knew best. All our performances ended the same way: you, lifting me to your heart and kissing my forehead, blotting away a smudge of lipstick in Wild Rose. In routine, we thrived.

Your glamour, I coveted silently, compliantly, as you never allowed me to feel anything less than beautiful. I watched you play dress up every day, slipping on rings and necklaces, a collection of birthdays and apologies, but never the gift I longed to see sparkling around your fourth finger. Without words, I wished you happiness and a potency of love I was unable to present, not in a bouquet, or a subtle wink, only a stare of fragile eternity. But I kept your secrets, every single one, and deep down I knew you were happy without all that fuss— your way of saying alone.

So, when the nurse woke me on that last day, knocked me from my pedestal and jammed a fork into the second refrain, the music stopped. As I fell to the floor and spilled across the carpet alongside plastic pearls and resin stones, I caught one final glimpse of you. You wore the same forever smile your father had painted onto my plastic lips, and as the shadow of a foot descended, my tutu billowing around gloss-chipped legs, I knew we would be together soon.

I have no fear, your confidence kept, not in that beloved jewellery box, but in me, as long ago you whispered that the good stuff was buried in the garden, under the apple tree.

Zoe Davis is an emerging writer and artist from Sheffield, England. A Quality Engineer in advanced manufacturing by day, she spends her evenings and weekends writing poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Acropolis Journal, Livina Press, MONO. CERASUS Magazine and Idle Ink. You can also follow her on Twitter / X @MeanerHarker and @meanerharker.bsky.social where she’s always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.

Photo by SPACEDEZERT on Unsplash

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