Wednesday, 1 August 2018

Lost Yesterdays



‘It was just stuff, after all, just things. Belongings don’t make a home, people do,’ she told him, gripping his hand.
‘In a strange way, it’s liberating, cleansing,’ he said, wiping tears from his eyes.
They moved back from the heat and she thought about her melting memory sticks. She looked up at the sky and wished she’d saved to the “Cloud”.
He sniffed wood smoke and wondered if he was inhaling his piano.
The fire engine came and doused their shared history.
When the building was declared safe they went back in. They argued about what was salvageable. He said nothing was but she kept picking up blackened twisted remnants as keepsakes.
They were insured, their house was remade and they could buy everything new.
He got a more expensive piano that didn’t stick on B flat, but somehow lacked the personality of his old one.
She started saving to the “Cloud”. She missed her dress with the pink spots she’d worn for their wedding day.
‘I didn’t think I was materialistic,’ she told him, sitting on their garden bench, the only thing that had escaped the blaze.
‘We have each other,’ he said.
‘That stuff was part of my heart,’ she replied.
The doctor came and told her she had to go away.
He looked around the empty house. Things didn’t matter, people did, he told himself. But now the only important person had gone too.
He knew what he had to do. He hunted car boot sales and charity shops and Ebay to find exact copies of what they’d owned. When he couldn’t find items he drew pictures of them and hung them up. He wasn’t a very talented artist, nor did he have great visual recollection but he drew with determination and passion. He drew each ornament on the mantelpiece, he drew the rickety armchair she loved, he drew their wedding photos, he drew everything that was missing except her.
After a month she returned, thinner and tired-looking. He took her hand and guided her into their illustrated home.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
A breeze ran through the house and all the drawings on the walls rustled and shivered. ‘I love it,’ she said, then looked up at him with glistening eyes, ‘No more matches?’ she asked.
‘No more matches,’ he agreed.

Sunday, 25 March 2018

Part of my Heart Belongs to a Dog


My Labrador lies by me and snores
He slumbers more and more
He dreams and twitches and sleep-woofs
When he wakes, yawning and yowling
He demands blueberries and carrots and love
A can-be cantankerous walker
Occasionally puppyish and playful
Old and lumpy and mad
He is my strange baby

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Song Request for my Funeral



I wasn’t supposed to like this song, I was supposed to like melancholic lyrics, songs that people who wore purple and black liked. But this baby leaked through.
One, two, three, four! There are some songs that make my soul dance. That transport, that dissolve, that create joy. There are some songs that are silly and must be played at every opportunity, every party, every wedding, should be on every iPod. Even sober, this makes me leap about like a moron. Part of me is in 1990 again, hearing it for the first time. Groove is in my heart and I dance with deee-lite.