When I was small I was obsessed with snails

My mother came today, back after travels, badly-set arm now properly in plaster.
She was just there, all day, pottering around, tidying up, bringing me tea and plates of cut apple. I hardly spoke, she didn't ask questions. Every now and then I went through to the kitchen to give her a hug. I'm glad she's back. It's been a long time.

I finished an essay, emailed it in four hours late.

Then we ate French cheese and went for a walk in the rain sotto braccio
And stopped off in a restaurant and scooped Thai food off each other's plates.

When I small I was obsessed with snails.
I spotted this on the way home. A Self-portrait with snail.

I remembered something. A wall with snails, hidden in the cracks from the midday sun.
A curfew, we weren't supposed to be out, military manoeuvres on the clearing below the path. I can't remember whether they had guns. But we weren't supposed to be out. I remember being afraid, a bit. But my mother is brave, my mother is there, and I crouched down by her legs on the path and looked at the snails.

I remember other curfews that year, the siren sounding, and the power cut while we were sitting in the bath in the basement. Waiting in the dark till my mother came to lift us out.

I can't remember these things like stories, more as fragmented details of feelings.

I can't even remember if they were true.

But when I was small I was obsessed with snails.