I was sitting at my desk, trying to write, something, anything, didn’t matter, but my fingers couldn’t hit the keys striaght. See what I mean ? Couldn’t hit them straight, couldn’t put one word after….. It just wasn’t...
It wasn’t the beer, wine, spliff, the energy bills, price of petrol, wars, the end of the world as we know it or any other shit that was happening at that moment.
“Will dinner be ready soon, Dad?”
She didn’t actually speak, but she was there, her cold back on the wintered-up radiators, mobile texting and whatnot, behind my back, not in view, present, in my space. Out of sight is out of mind? Out of sight is out of my mind.
“What’s she doing? Why is she there? Do I have to speak? Is that what she wants? What do I say? What if she doesn’t hear, or answer? Would it be worth it?”
She moves in silence, a ghost of a ghost of a ghost, like mist, suddenly fogging your vision. Unheard footsteps tip-tap occasionally, but no creaky floorboards or staircase to warn you in this land of stone and tiling.
“What does she want, can’t she see I’m busy with this, that, and the other?”
It’s always been like that. Finding.The.Time.To.Fit.In.Some.Of.The.What’s.Wanted.Between.The.What.Needs.To.Be.Done.
“I’m here, Dad, and when will dinner be ready?”
She didn’t actually say it, but I could feel the words creeping and crawling across the open and closed space between us, like a ground frost.
“Are you going to talk to me, Dad?”
Probably, but only when you stop asking, just leave me be and let me hit my keys striaght then I’ll live and love you forever more. Or at least ‘til next dinner time.
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