The bell rang and I leapt into action
with the preliminary grumble
of an aged Pavlovian hound.
I grasped both armrests
hissed a pneumatic gasp
and pushed
myself
up.

I shuffled to the door
imagining a visitor
or the letter I’d waited years for
from her.

But no—
I swung the door open in time to see
the backs of running kids,
giggling in full retreat.
One shouted “Gotcha!”
over his shoulder as they scattered
with big chicken steps
around the corner.
I played my part and bellowed:
“I know where you live, you little bastards!”
throwing in a cartoonish fist-shake.

I chuckled as I closed the door
but felt the sudden sting
of knowing I’d have given everything
to be running in their warm sunshine
with pockets empty of anything
to slow them down.

———-

Andrew Urquhart is originally from Glasgow but has lived in the Scottish Highlands for most of his life now. He has taught English and Scottish literature for many years. He writes poems and stories in both English and Scots and has most recently had work published, in the award nominated pamphlet, “Mair Northern Nummers,” and in magazines such as Lallans, Eemis Stane, Allegro, Dreich, and Clarion.