Jenny Downham

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The leaves were damp, he says. Paperll get it going again.
I open one of the boxes and tip it upside down.
From the day I noticed the first bruise on my spine, to the day only
two months ago when the hospital officially gave up on me, I kept a diary.
Four years of pathetic optimism burns well – look at it flare! All the get-well
cards I ever received curl at the edges, crisp right up and flake to nothing.
Over four long years you forget peoples names.
There was a nurse who used to draw cartoons of the doctors and put
them by the bed to make me laugh. I cant remember her name either.
Was it Louise? She was quite prolific. The fire spits, embers spark away into
the trees.
m unburdening myself, I tell Adam.
But I dont think hes listening. Hes dragging a clump of bramble
across the grass towards the fire.
Its the next box I hate the most. Me and Dad used to trawl through it
together, scattering photos over the hospital bed.
You will get well again, hed tell me as he ran a finger over my
eleven-year-old image, self-conscious in my school uniform, first day of
secondary school. Heres one of you in Spain, hed say. Do you
remember?
I looked thin and brown and hopeful. I was in remission for the first
time. A boy whistled at me on the beach. My dad took a picture, said Id
never want to forget my first whistle.
But I do.
I have a sudden desire to rush back home and get more stuff. My
clothes, my books.