No more to hear your voice
No more to touch your hand
No more to wave goodbye
And yet you live
That handwritten note, meticulous, updated and again, found unexpectedly in a crumpling, manila file. You caught me.
That walk at Scarborough, late afternoon, autumn. But memories of early morning, summer, forty five years ago. My hand in yours, skipping on the beach, virgin sand. The day, my life, ahead. Yours, already, almost half behind.
That drawing. Framed rhododendron heads, three stages of decay. Pen. Ink. You. I’d forgotten it, by the chest in the spare room and caught it with my foot – as you caught me.
You. Again. Here.
Don’t cheek your mother. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Mind you take your shoes off. The story of the orange peel, thrown into Queen’s Dock as they filled it up, mid thirties. You a boy of eight, alone in the city, mother working, father dying. You surviving.
But now YOU’RE gone. I’m here.
It’s said we don’t grow up until we lose our parents. Independence – but at what price? Who, Mr Quantity Surveyor, counts the cost now that you’re goine? You didn’t reckon that up on foolscap sheet.
Your chair, your brush, your watch, your glasses, wallet, frown. I wasn’t ready.