For My Father


For My Father

Sunday afternoon tick-tocked to the sound of lawn mowers and children’s voices; behind drawn curtains time sighed and slowed to the ordinary sadness of carpet corners.

You dozed and woke to thank the nurse, long gone, who’d helped you shave; and once called my mother to an imagined phone call.

Last this, last that and time began again as the ambulance crew spoke softly down the stairs. I think you thanked them too.

Afterwards we left memorial umbrellas on trains and one night abandoned the car across the drive at a commemorative angle. It was the least we could do.

M J Lewis©2015

Goodness, I hope we’re going to get some cheery stories this week here at Friday Fiction. I saw a doorway, transitions…You get the picture.

Thanks as ever to our host Rochelle, to Roger Bultot for the photo and to all who take the time to visit.


22 thoughts on “For My Father

  1. First I love the prose… simply wonderful in the way you use words
    … time sighed and slowed to the ordinary sadness of carpet corners.
    On the poetry site I run we just had a prompt on synaesthesia (mixing of senses).. and what a skillful use you made of that device. Then I really love the smile at the end, forgetting umbrellas and parking the car to honor his memory… splendid work

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks for your lovely comments.
      So interesting that you mention synaesthesia. I’m always fascinated when psychologists talk about our understanding of this quality and its overlap with poetry and language. The experience of being with my father the weekend before he died has a kind of intense poetic and synaesthetic quality in my memory – everything was both compressed and heightened. The closest other experience to it for me was giving birth to my son at home – I tried telling someone this at the time and I know they thought I was a bit freaky, so I stored that away. But to have birth and death connected seems fair enough to me.
      I think Nabokov was a famous synaesthete but there may be lots of writers who are/were. (My computer keeps wanting to write anesthesia!)
      As to the umbrellas I hope they were well used and don’t linger in some lost property office. This was six years ago but I remember a wet Autumn and watching several trains leave with me forlorn on the platform and my umbrella on the seat seen through the window. It is those silly little details you remember!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. The story is beautifully told, sad, but also with humour, and full of love. However, that first paragraph! It melts on the tongue like good choclate; and yes, I read it out loud to myself.

    Liked by 1 person

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