21st August – The Slug Sonnet

I never thought I’d read aloud here and not regularly like I do now. My slug sonnet, of all things. But somehow the notebook was in my hand, and the room fell still, and the words tumbled out.

For once, I didn’t feel small. When I sat down, there was a quiet pause, the sort that feels full. Mr Tibbins nodded and said “true observation,” which in his language is probably an ovation.

The rest of the evening blurred, but I remember the relief: I had given something of myself, and it hadn’t fallen flat. Strange, how a slug can help you feel seen.