Flyover

Every time we drive over this flyover I say the same thing. You see, I was born here, well down there actually, in my parent’s bedroom although my auntie claims I was born in the bathtub. And a bit short of a year, I took my first steps down there. Fell down a lot. I have small feet, and they were even smaller back then. I once tripped on a blade of grass sitting proud on top of a wonky paving stone, but to me it was that blade of grass that left me strewn on the ground with a bloody chin and savaged knees. For some reason, I was a slow learner; didn’t figure out ’til much later that hands were made for breaking one's fall — I usually slid across the pavement on my knees and face. As I understand it, people pay loads for a facial abrasion. I reckon they need to be falling down more; pocket the money. Anyway, this flyover — Dad built a house on this very spot. It had a big picture window that looked down on the lake, and at Christmastime we'd watch the Christmas Boat arrive with St Nicholas onboard. And when I was in first grade, the county sent my dad a letter. They requisitioned our land, and built a motorway where our house used to be. And every time we drive over this flyover I say the same thing: We’re driving over my old house.