Kaz

As I leave my front door, I wrestle with the weight of the pram, pulling it by the smooth leather handle over the friction of the rough mat, bumbling over the awkward steps. The breeze blows my hair into my eyes as I leave the warmth of the house behind me. 

 

Taking a deep breath -as the ordeal of just getting through the narrow door feels like a challenge- the air is fresh and salty. I don’t know what the smell is that gives away the month we’re in, dampness maybe- wetter air in my nose but sunshine in my eyes. 

 

My rough denim jacket is made cosier by the chill on my cheeks. The gentle rustle of the leaves that I never stop to notice, like white noise in my subconscious, is louder than usual. I close my eyes to work out what else is contributing to the white noise and is the low hum of traffic, far enough to be unclear but adding to the periphery of the sound. As always, the singing and chirping of joyful birdsong is ever present and rarely noticed. Why is it that the happiest sounds are most often not heard? 

 

The sound of rolling tyres on pavement is punctuated with a rhythmic squeak, reminding me of a wheel that I always forget to fix the moment I come back through the door.