Young Writers Society

I was lost in the city on April twenty-first,

Lost in a jungle with not a mother, father or nurse.

I cried for a little, and sat on my own,
Stood for a while and walked around in the unknown.
I pointed at the red of the double-decker bus,
Climbed onto a park bench and pursed my lips without a fuss.

I sat there for hours, or at least a minute or two,
Crossed my legs and blinked again and watched the hotdog queue.
It was midday before I saw them, my parents both distraught,
My mother clung to my father’s arm, as if the cold were but a draught.

His brow was clenched, his jaw aligned, his skin tense and pale,
My mother, every now and then, would let out a meagre wail.
It was then I chose to aware them, of my presence, here alive,
And when I did, they snatched me, in one fluid movement dive.

They didn’t let me go, until the clock had struck past three,
And when they did, they held my hand, as if I would disappear before my tea.
They tucked me into bed that night, worried and rather scared,
Mother cried a tear and I suppose that means she cared.

They checked my skin for bruises and cuts the very, very next day,
They were convinced, I overheard them, that I had been hurt by a stray.
I stood very still and waited, Mother’s shaking hand on my arm,
When they were finished, I sighed, and I tentatively took my loving father’s palm.

“Daddy, I lost you, that’s all, can I please go and play?”
Father frowned at me slowly, and said, “Darling, not today.”
It was another two weeks before I was alone in my room,
The sight of my toys again was enough to make me swoon.

We never forgot the day, when my small self had been lost,
And ten years later, at sixteen, the story had only been embossed.
It was told to my suitors, that I had been snatched at six,
That I had been beaten, hurt and abused; damaged with crusty bricks.

The suitors, one by one, stood strong for my protection,
My father then smiled, as he watched them in inspection.
I married one in the end, his name was Matthew James,
He wasn’t like the rest of them, he laughed and liked my games.

He joined me in my old playroom, and listened to my story,
He escorted me to the park, and we sat silenced in the nostalgic glory.
We had a child – her name was mine, and her hair was gold and curled,
We lost her in the city, on April twenty-third.

We waited for her patiently, on the loveseat bench,
We were waiting when she found us, and Matthew’s jaw unclenched.
We took her home to her playroom, she sat alone and smiled,
We didn’t bother her further and the disaster became just mild.

Things like that, as Matthew then explained, are regular on this earth,
I nodded and kissed him soundly, as if to prove my daughter’s worth.
It didn’t happen again; not to my daughter, son or me.
But when asked my husband laughs, and says only with time we’ll see.

On April twenty-first, twenty years from the day,
I lost myself in the city again, and this time it was okay.
This time I smiled and laughed and I never once cried.
Because holding my hand, next to me, my husband was at my side.