Lottie

The air here smells like Lottie’s house - an old friend. Rich with the laundry detergent her mother used. A sausage sizzle brewing - yum. My last memory with Lottie exists on the trampoline, where we both came to an agreement upon how horrifying death is. We were lying down, still breathless from trying to jump so high we could see the roof of the world. 

‘Cross that bridge when we get there’ she said. 

I stared at the ceiling sky. Somehow her words were a comfort like no other, embracing me as the bread does the sausage sizzle, soft and warm.  

I come across Lottie’s Instagram or Snapchat story. She’s posted a mirror selfie - It’s the same bathroom we used to make slime in. I can smell the laundry detergent through the screen. I wonder if she’s found the roof of the world. I know I’m still searching. Or if she has managed to escape the haunting bridge, like I have never been able to.