The British Museum, 1979

Come sister, take my hand, and then you take hers. Maybe we will be able to let this horse head pass us by, if the three of us stare long and hard enough.

We stepped out of the metropolis to follow him meekly. Closing the glass doors on summer, we started this winding through endless white rooms. Where our eyes now search the artefacts without seeing, where flip-flops echo against the high ceilings, but no drinks were to be found.

Tired of everything being different, you pull me close. Lean on me, you say. Yesterday’s long journey is hiding in your t-shirt, and I press myself against your small flat chest. No father, please, not another masterpiece.

Translucent against those white walls, I open my eyes to find the woman there, squatted with black charcoal fingers, a drawing on paper ready on her knees. And when she looks up to the father, she knows. Her bare shoulders have already won him over. Spilling her curly hair, she makes her skin shine like the victor she is. So what if we lose it all today.