There was a bottle in the cupboard
the colour of weak sunshine,
with a label half‑peeled
and a smell you could recognise
from three rooms away.
Thick as custard,
sweet in a way nothing natural ever is,
it clung to the spoon
like it didn’t want to let go.

We hated it, of course;
the way it coated your tongue,
the way it lingered
long after the promise of juice
to wash it down.
But there was something steady in it too:
the clink of the teaspoon,
the shake‑shake‑shake of the bottle,
the quiet authority of adults
who knew how to measure out
what would make you better.

Now, years later,
I catch a hint of artificial banana
in a sweet shop or a bakery
and I’m right back there;
wrapped in a blanket,
cartoons humming in the background,
the world reduced to warmth,
rest,
and a syrupy spoonful
of something I never liked
but somehow miss.