I Can’t Remember You, Albert

I can’t remember if we watched cartoons together,
Or played marbles on the road outside ,
Or hid our favourite toys from each other.
I can’t remember if you liked to draw,
Or play with plastic soldiers,
Or just make up stories like me.
I can’t remember if we loved the same football team,
Or argued about our best player,
Or celebrated that cup win.
I can’t remember if I wore your hand-me-downs,
Like the red quilted coat,
Or the blue mittens threaded through the sleeves.
I can’t remember if you ever saw the blood moon,
Or lay in the back garden stargazing,
Until mam told you to go to bed.
I can’t remember if you borrowed my favourite shirt,
Or if you stole my new girlfriend
Or just gave me some brotherly advice.
I can’t remember if we became inseparable,
Or drifted apart as brothers can,
Or just became ambivalent to each other.
I can’t remember our parents trauma,
Or if mam cried thinking of you
When she was holding me in her arms.
I can’t remember you, Albert
Because you were killed at the age of six
And I hadn’t been born yet.