Needles to a past not forgotten

The needles scratched the surface of my skin,
the points painlessly being driven in.

The well of emotions into which they tapped,
made for an interesting and colourful landscape,

as memories were cracked
wide open.

The sea,
the waves lapping,
the heady scent of suntan lotion;
the heat on burning feet
when running across the scorching white sand.

Lucidly but vividly dreaming,
I see my sister’s face, and my own,
as we play in the stream under the palms
hunting for tadpoles.

The grass was so green and springy,
the sun high in the sky.
Mum had long black hair, her cheeky soul twinkling in her eyes.

She wore her dark blue bathing suit, and had brought our favourite dried apricot dessert.

Dad had a full head of black hair, and a beard, his belly full of laughter, a real wholesome treat.

The small shaded pool where we learned to swim.

The friendly man offering free bottles of soda at the drinks stand.

The Sheikh’s palace with it’s beautiful Arabian white architecture and cool gardens.

The cameras hanging from the two palm trees standing guard over us as we entered the beach at the security posts.

The men climbing date palms using rope to aid their ascension, then chopping down big bunches, dates crashing to the ground, bounce.

The smiles.
The warmth.
The happiness.

We bathed in them all.

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