Days are often spent in Halstead where Dad lives,
And I lived until I was nineteen but
Time does not exist there.
The town where I grew up.
When I am there, I cannot escape past feelings, the places still exist in my minds eye as they did then and when I’m in town I’m searching for old faces
Which sometimes emerge though physically older than I remember
Eyes sometimes look me up and down in return, as I recall the face that I once knew –
perhaps they try to place me.
But today I avoided it all and just sat with Dad and his collection of pickle which arrived in an amazon prime van.
“Theres rather a lot here Dad”, I say,
“Oh, is there”, he says, “how many I only ordered two”
I count them, “There’s twenty”.
“Ah” he replies.
I smile and look at him. He’s not looking at me, but at his paper. Or papers today. His Times which he has subscribed to forever and which, when it doesn’t arrive, throws him, causes his day to slide, all events land in a heap around him, and he can’t seem to pick them up and carry on. It turns out the paper boy had gone on holiday and his replacement had been putting the papers in the neighbours’ letter box, which another neighbour had spotted and worked out were Dads’.
So, his routine and his smile were restored simultaneously, and he was able to get on with his day – I left him to do so with his pile of missed papers and his box of jars of aubergine pickle.
Mum’s the word 