It is summer. The sun beating down on sunburned arms and faces. Sitting in swimming shorts and bare feet. T-shirts screwed up, discarded in the bottom of the canoe, soaked beside empty crisp packets, empty water bottles, wet sandwiches. The gentle, warm breeze tickles sweating bodies as we move on. A small group paddling a short distance downstream, long straight, sweeping elegant corners and frequent locks to pass. I paddle free from next week’s work, deadlines, stress. Gliding downstream slowly, rhythmically, sun on my shoulders, brown-green water washes past, washes away my cares of the pressures of Life. After, we sit in the sun, waiting for a lift home. Families out walking by the river side step, mutter quietly at us as we lie, sweaty and tired and carefree, canoes pulled up blocking the path.
The car slows and pulls over on a quiet road. creeps The sun beats down, hot through the windows. Dad turns around from the driving seat, breathes in for a long time. A van thunders past and the car shakes. I blink, twitch slightly and look back to my father a familiar look is filling his eyes, “it’s the cat...” I close my eyes. Something expands through my chest painfully, breathing becomes laborious. Aching of arms and stiffness of legs from the activity of the morning fills my body and behind my temples mad drummers pound wildly, insanely, impossibly. The slow, joyful morning fades. The dull pain of loss fills me. My eyes swim out of focus. I settle low in the back seat as the blurred world goes by as the car pulls away.
I am sitting in my grand-parents front room. Spread lazily across the sofa. The sun comes through the window. We sit together drinking tea, exchanging stories from our week apart, talking, laughing. Our family holiday and the adventures they had looking after the cat, while the dog bounds excitedly around as cakes and biscuits circle the room. Lying carefree in the sun, smiling I stare out the window with only the long summer awaits.
The sun is hot on my cheek as I sit uncomfortably upright in my broken bus seat. Turning my head I study the worn, faded, broken and repaired arm rests and chair backs. Patchwork patterns of rebuilt upholstery. I close my eyes against the sun.
The armchairs and sofa have been re-covered. It is green now, not a flowery tapestry. I enter quietly and sit with my drink on my lap, knees tightly together. My grandmother crosses the room to her chair next to the empty fireplace and a table layered with crossword dictionaries. She has just got home from the hospice, again. I watch her move stiffly and slowly. She looks weary. An intensely different from the person from the one I left two weeks earlier. She has been in and out of hospital for a few months now. Everything is changing.
She is gone the next time I visit. I feel her missing. Every time I visit, something is missing. The house does not feel complete. There is a gaping hole that I cannot quite place, until I remember. Then the loss comes flooding back. Between visits I can forget that she is gone, move on with Life. Make my own plans. Working at my miserable job, wandering around the crowded supermarket, seeing friends, travel plans for my twenty-eight days of vacation with pay. But when I visit it all comes back. I hug my grandfather, thank him for the tea and cake, then reverse the car out and rattle down the potholed road.
The car slows and pulls over on a quiet road. creeps The sun beats down, hot through the windows. Dad turns around from the driving seat, breathes in for a long time. A van thunders past and the car shakes. I blink, twitch slightly and look back to my father a familiar look is filling his eyes, “it’s the cat...” I close my eyes. Something expands through my chest painfully, breathing becomes laborious. Aching of arms and stiffness of legs from the activity of the morning fills my body and behind my temples mad drummers pound wildly, insanely, impossibly. The slow, joyful morning fades. The dull pain of loss fills me. My eyes swim out of focus. I settle low in the back seat as the blurred world goes by as the car pulls away.
I am sitting in my grand-parents front room. Spread lazily across the sofa. The sun comes through the window. We sit together drinking tea, exchanging stories from our week apart, talking, laughing. Our family holiday and the adventures they had looking after the cat, while the dog bounds excitedly around as cakes and biscuits circle the room. Lying carefree in the sun, smiling I stare out the window with only the long summer awaits.
The sun is hot on my cheek as I sit uncomfortably upright in my broken bus seat. Turning my head I study the worn, faded, broken and repaired arm rests and chair backs. Patchwork patterns of rebuilt upholstery. I close my eyes against the sun.
The armchairs and sofa have been re-covered. It is green now, not a flowery tapestry. I enter quietly and sit with my drink on my lap, knees tightly together. My grandmother crosses the room to her chair next to the empty fireplace and a table layered with crossword dictionaries. She has just got home from the hospice, again. I watch her move stiffly and slowly. She looks weary. An intensely different from the person from the one I left two weeks earlier. She has been in and out of hospital for a few months now. Everything is changing.
She is gone the next time I visit. I feel her missing. Every time I visit, something is missing. The house does not feel complete. There is a gaping hole that I cannot quite place, until I remember. Then the loss comes flooding back. Between visits I can forget that she is gone, move on with Life. Make my own plans. Working at my miserable job, wandering around the crowded supermarket, seeing friends, travel plans for my twenty-eight days of vacation with pay. But when I visit it all comes back. I hug my grandfather, thank him for the tea and cake, then reverse the car out and rattle down the potholed road.
Part 3 is due for release tomorrow.
Thank you for visiting.
All stories and works in their complete form are available in the bookstore, to visit click here.
Thank you for visiting.
All stories and works in their complete form are available in the bookstore, to visit click here.