By Richard Teague
My mind is full of holes, moth-eaten, ratty at the edges.
Today the supermarket aisle is as empty as a hospital bed.
I look at the tin of SPC peaches in my hand, but now it’s only half a tin.
Grass has started to sprout through the floor; the trolley has become an aluminium frame that I push with difficulty past granite memories like sign-posts whipping by.
The grass is greener on the other side, reduced to one lush rectangle.
She tugs my arm impatiently.
“Let’s go, grandma.”
“I thought I could hear grandpa’s voice.”
“What did he say?”
“To come straight home.”
Brilliant.
I like this story. It stopped me.