The bed looks blue, like cold lips and so still, clothes tucked ‘round; the kitchen, its tiny yellow kettle and fridge that grumbles all night long; and her mother’s chair, the dents for buttocks and head just resting… always in the coarse weave of floral chintz. Those roses on the upholstery stay alive, while vases on shelves support the droop of escaping time. The calendar, protecting the wallpaper since 1997, starts shedding (the one with pictures of English villages tucking their pastel rooves into the arm crooks of hills or birthed from the hip’s curve of tiny pebbled beaches). As each morning oozes, silted cream through lace curtains, single rectangular dates like spinning blades, extricate themselves and come at her; waspish and cruel. And April, unsteady under this attack of days, flees outdoors, counting windows (those mawkish eyes) that she passes. They tell nothing, only reflecting her ambling retreat. She hears her mother’s voice frail as tungsten: “Time is what you make of it.” Hears the repetitive crash of Saturday’s broom against door frames, skirting boards and balustrades. Always sweeping - her uneven percussion. April’s past, once cling-wrapped and chilled like Sunday’s lamb and Daddy’s hum, warms slowly in the tepid air. In her mind, the graceful gathering of red, her history dissolving blood flowering across gridded paper days.