Fairies. Foxglove, Candytuft, Lavenderโsprinkled over my bed in a confetti of imagination. Wrinkles in my duvet distort their pretty faces into pastel Picassos with contorted fingers folded over broken stems and fractured flowers. My hand unfurls the pleats absentmindedly, mending the fissures. A tear lands on Foxgloveโs cheek, then three moreโI use the back of my hand to brush them away before any major damage can occur, and get straight back to the task of fairy de-clutter. โIt has nothing to do with you, Andrea, or the boys. Dad is leaving because he and I canโt work out our differences.โ More tears. My fingers work hard, adjusting and reshaping; restoring the floral fantasy to its rightful place. There. Lavender unfolds; sheโs reaching out on tiptoes, balancing on a stem of purple euphoria.
He took his painting. The one that hung over the fireplace. The wrinkled face of the lady sitting behind a cooking pot on an open fire, alone in the veld. Eons of dirt. Of life. She had been staring back at me with watery eyes for as long as I can remember. She knew things.
I missed her.
I missed him.
Eating toast with marmite and honey on it, in the bath (itโs a skill); black tea perched on the corner of the tub. The familiar clink-clink of his bangles as he went about his day. Bruce Springsteen and various shades of ABBA blearing through the lounge on a Saturday morning. The smell of sawdust as the sander stripped and polished under the skilled guidance of the carpenterโs hand. His deep, slow voice breathing life into books at bedtime.
The smell of stale cigarettes that I wasnโt supposed to notice but did.
My eyes close. Smoke unfurls into the blackโฆ up and up, disappearing into the stars.
