punks

I walk on tiptoes through the house to save the heels of my jeans from fraying. In one room, Boo Boo is switching channels like it's a game. In another, Mum is rearranging paintings. I stop at the door. Dad is late. Mum looks at me as if I should know where things are meant to go. I tiptoe on towards the kitchen.
In the fridge is an impressive array of sausage, cheese, vegetables and bottles of items in varying degrees of suspended animation.
Nothing has an end, except for life.