The Crooked Green Pocket

Leonie sat on her bedroom floor with a box between her knees. Mum was beside her wrapping the bedside lamp in a towel. Every few minutes she passed Leonie something to pack. Outside the open door stood their shoes, ready for tomorrow, when they would move to the new house.

At the bottom of her drawer, Leonie found her small apron with the crooked green pocket. She pressed her thumb into its corner. On Sundays, Mrs Bell from downstairs knocked after breakfast. They made bread together while Mum drank tea, and flour always settled inside that pocket, soft as dust.

Leonie held the apron against her chest. Mrs Bell would knock on this door next Sunday, but somebody else would be here. Then she remembered: Mrs Bell knew they were moving. She would not knock at all. Leonie's throat tightened. She felt sad and frightened. What if our mornings stop?

She pushed the apron under her pillow and pulled two books out of the box. If her room still looked like her room, perhaps leaving would feel smaller. She lined the books along the windowsill. But the bare shelf remained bare, and hiding the apron made her miss Sundays more.