On the shore

I am the boy named snow, eleven years old. I sit to the right of my mother who named me. She is not eleven years old, but older. We travel from Balham to Waterloo.

I am the mother of a boy named snow, eleven years old, but I am older. We travel from Balham to Waterloo. In my bag is a handwritten letter that I shall deliver to the consultant in person. I am nervous, frustrated that I missed the first post and have a weak bladder.

I am a commuter with the mother of a boy named snow, eleven years old. I travel from Morden to Edgware, it takes 1 hour 24 minutes. On a good day I can repeat this journey 9 times each day, providing I stop for only 3 cups of coffee, black no sugar. This is a good day.

The boy named snow sits on a seat shared by approximately 794 people this day, it has been freshly installed only 2 years previously, and wear and tear is minimal. One of these people, John van der Put, 24, from Honor Oak, London, is currently asleep in South Wimbledon.

In three days and 4 minutes he will meet the mother of a boy named snow on the Clerkenwell road. She will drop the hat of her second child and he will scoop down and pick it up. As their hands touch for the first time, small particles of sweat, skin and saliva will transfer. Stained they will continue their journeys.

The mother of a boy named snow will transfer these particles to her son’s hair in a gesture of maternal comfort brought on by a diagnosis of sickness. These traces will linger between strands of blonde for a time, before floods of seramide neutrinium cleanse the roots.