The last time we saw him was on a screen. The nurse held an iPad so that we could talk to him; he had crocodile eyes, still and dull, as he stared at us.
His house reeks. Of loneliness. Of a lifetime’s clutter. Every window is nailed shut, suffocating us into his world as we sidestep the land mines of debris.
I am breathing in a dead man’s skin.
His shadow inhabits his armchair, the seat still depressed by his weight. His soul judges us as we lob his precious junk into boxes, then a skip, the detritus of his life taken further and further away.
A flick of a neighbour’s face symbolises communal relief. He was a loner. Dirty. Unkempt. The children weren’t allowed to play at that end of the road. Rumours were rife.
I watch you handling your father’s things, contemplating. You have his obsessive tendencies. More and more, I have noticed similarities over the years. I do have guilt about not visiting with you, but everything about him made my stomach churn.
‘No.’ I shake my head at the VCR in your hands and wait for you to walk to the front door with it and toss it into the skip before I pull out a drawer and upend its contents.
A tiny white sock alights on the top, matted with dust. It is incongruous among the decades-old stuff.
You blanch as you take the box off me and disappear with it. I hear the oof outside.
I need air.
The sock has been swallowed into the belly of the skip.
Or hidden.
I scrub at the graffiti with turps – acknowledging their spelling prowess – until only two letters remain: ‘PA’.
Did you ever really know him, I wonder…
The visits. The sock.
Do I know you?
Saturday 18 June 2022
'Pa. Dot. Dot. Dot.' by Helen Laycock
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I'm left with a sick feeling - and admiration for your writing. Lizy
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