Any friend of Jesus is a friend of mine

An eager child, I picked up stones
and washed them, clean and neat.
Then sold them for a penny
to the grannies on our street.

One of them had a poodle.
All legs and ball-shaped fur.
Its collar gleamed with diamonds.
They were REAL ones. I was sure!

The home birth of my baby bro.
I was shooed out the door.
Such immature injustice.
I was practically four!

And rubbing salt into my wounds,
behind that bedroom wall.
The goldfish bowl stayed in its place
so Blubby saw it all!

A friend would say "Come to our house."
I was little and shy.
This family had status
and now I'll tell you why.

We'd traipse into the front room.
The one they kept for best.
A framed portrait hung on the wall.
It left me most impressed.

The picture was of Jesus.
The meaning sank in, quick.
They must have REALLY met him.
He'd given them his pic!

On the back seat of our Mum's car
with baby propped beside.
She put the daimler into gear
and started up our ride.

At the first bend, before my eyes,
the car door opened wide.
And with a silent, sideways lean
my sister rolled outside.

The open door. My mouth was shut.
The baby blanket bare.
The car still moved. I sensed a change
and watched my Mother's hair.

A tiny moment in my life.
Not scared. Not judged. Just here.
Then frightened scream and squealing brakes.
A Farley's rusk of fear.

Fast forward and the fish long flushed.
Child car seats now firm faves.
And all those grannies that I knew
have stones upon their graves.

Those childlike thoughts, so unconstrained.
This conclusion I pen.
Although I'm more 'in the know' now,
was more in the now, then!