Together

The Old man and I, at the little beer garden in the grounds of the hospital. I would help wheel him out, and after a stroll through the grounds, we would sit and have a drink. It was here I showed him how to use the Kindle I bought him. It was here we spoke…

Painting

Created by my 3 year old pouring paint. These moments are those where I realise that my best tribute to the Old Man’s legacy is beyond my little stories… It is in these moments as a father myself.

Desire Path

The meadow rises up and away from me, like one of those exponentially rising graphs that my maths teacher used to draw on the board, to my eternal mystification. Yet here it makes sense, pushing up the last hundred metres of elevation in a swell of alpine grass and flowers at the ridge that marks…

Three Trees

It’s a blur now – I wish it wasn’t. Memory it seems is not really a visual sense, as much as we think it is. We tend to think about our memories through the visual – old photographs, or descriptions of places and people. Yet when I try to picture my father’s face, it is…

A Winter in July

Who knew that a couch could be so long? It’s only a 20 foot room, yet the sofa stretches a thousand miles away and she shrinks from my touch, the way a snail recoils from salt I am toxic to her now.   It’s not fair, to say frigid and think about sex, because that’s…

Ninety Seconds

13 weeks before – when I found the collapse of the identity I had cared for – gifted to me in the form of the man screaming at me 90 seconds into our meeting, I left.   And I let that identity go, who needs it? Career, income, status, shiny things And here I am…

Laughter in a Forest

I have returned, one year later, to the place where my little miracle occurred. I was often told that in the wake of my father’s passing, my calm and quiet demeanour was inspiring. People mistook my shock for strength, marvelled at it. That was forgivable – to find anything positive to say to the bereaved…