Precious choice

The girl in the documentary had a lost look on her face, it was a Sunday morning and she was sitting on the road side near the church, just across the border of the foreign country. She looked as if she was searching for words, language, meaning, a place, beyond the camera, not seeing the photographer at all. That was all that I could think of, standing in front of my five-doors wardrobe, thinking what to fit in a single rucksack. Seven months later, I would be sitting next a woman who would bring out her precious set of albums in a special well-preserved box. She would be showing me all the memories captured in distant pictures, and I would sigh, and say that I wished I had taken some photo albums with me. She would reply that people are gone, and so are the albums.

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Moments of Importance

The ochre light of the sun hugs your face through the windscreen as you smile in a way that gives the warmth of the day competition. Scenery of greens and blues and mountains and sheep fly past behind your head out the driver’s window, and it’s as though the music takes over. I hear nothing you say but I can count the lines around your mouth and the glints in your eyes. Then like that – it’s over; I can recall nothing you said or did but this image in my mind where your face convinced me magic exists in this world.

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Memories

It was upsetting to see Great Aunt Amy preparing for the funeral of Ted – her husband of 50 years. We took it in turns to make sure she had company, but it was difficult not to interfere when her behaviour seemed quite bizarre at times.

‘When I called round, Amy had her photos all over the place. Understandable that she wanted to be with her memories but they looked so disorganised. I took her an album  on the next visit, but she just put it to one side. ’

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Fall of Duty

Mike’s up before me. This doesn’t usually bode well. I check my phone. It’s precisely one minute until my alarm. That’s good. Bonus points for switching it off before it buzzes.

The children won’t be up for another twenty minutes. I say ‘children,’ but they’re practically adults. I shudder. Adulthood means uncertainty and danger. I ensure my slippers are perfectly aligned before stepping into them, then take my morning tablets in the correct order and rhythm. It involves popping the foils and swallowing each in turn, to the beat of ‘Another One Bites The Dust.’ My stomach stops churning.

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SOME THINGS ARE MORE PRECIOUS

In the solicitors waiting room pondering. My grandmother has passed away but we didn’t know as my mother had an acrimonious fallout with her years ago.

The door opens, I’m waved in, sitting in the only available seat. My aunts and uncles glower at me.

The solicitor, Mr Packson, a young man, says, ”We are here to read the will of Agnes Florence Whitely of 56 Millpond Road, Whisley. ”

Grunts of impatience  from people.

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The Things That Are Precious

Two men sitting at a bar. One man looks sad, then other is an angel.

The old man sat in a high-back chair just along the bar from where I nursed a warming beer. I hadn’t noticed him when I came in, but he seemed like he’d always been there, like a decorative feature hired by the owners to add colour.

“You look like they’ve salted that beer,” he said, his voice the timbre of oak barrels and Marlborough Reds. He hunched over his shot glass, not looking up, a heavy coat draped on the back of his chair, one sleeve dusting the floor, the other tucked under his dirty overalls, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing thick forearms.

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