- Writing - vignettes
- Previous - 04. It flows, if you let it
There’s something, there’s nothing, not here, not now. A liminal fortnight, hospital cafe, a regular customer but I don’t speak the language. I hope they sense my good heart; I suspect it’s hidden behind the label, ignorant tourist, such disrespect to talk at us like this. I’m here to help my Dad. I’m here, I am in here, sparkling, aching, reactive, tightening and loosening all the time. A huge distance yet to travel, it seems to me, sometimes, and yet there’s really nowhere to go, don’t you think?
I saw a death today. Well, reverberations of death, the gathered family, anguished weeping behind the shut door. And what I thought was - you lucky bastards. To have each other, and to grieve the loss. That’s the good stuff right there, aren’t we blessed to feel it so deeply. It’s all good, when you slow down to see it. This rigid chair, man on the phone to my right (dressed in white), the elderly couple through the glass on my left (deeply tanned, one bereft), five metres from me yet an ocean of language between us, off they walk now, buenas noches.
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