Supposing when my words step backwards down into the page, they capsize and stubbornly attach themselves to the expanse in ways that duck my reach before drifting ashore in my hair from where I’ll embarrassingly pick them out days later, frayed and indecipherable to the untrained squinter. “Is that something in your hair?” “Ah yes”, I’ll squint, dislodging it from its hiding place behind my ear, “it appears to be a question mark”.
Supposing there will come a time when she won’t let me square why? with the why not? Of Rememberance Assembly attendance. Of wearing that hooped jersey on sports day. Of being the Other of three categorically divided by Two.
Supposing I was to go one tip-toe further with a pre-emptive why not? at the why? Of the hidden fadas. Of invisible hurleys. Of being the Other of three unquestioningly divided by One.
Supposing we were keep-the-head-downers, mixed-marrieds centrists, holders of wringed hands clasped in prayer, would-be gleaming side-stepfording governors.
We’d all be Other than who We are then, I suppose.