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Scrumping, they called it once. Children don’t do it
now.
More likely to see them smoking
and whatever else
down at the park, by the
cricket pavilion.
Breaking windows.
This seemed – quaint.
She looked like –
this girl
she looked like –
but it may just have been a trick
of the light.
One of Ginny’s moments.
She had those.
After Jacek’s death. He’d died six years ago.
It may as well have been last week.
She’d see someone who looked like him, out and about,
at the market,
in the distance,
in a passing car.
And for a moment it would be
it would really be him.
It was something she’d heard about, before.
Before.
But she’d not known
she’d not been told
how uncanny it would be.
It was always someone who looked exactly like Jacek,
for that short moment
