By Louise Worthington
Lion-tamers’ strength in his arms belies the fragile mind inside the circus-top of his head. Dad’s symphony always starts with the flute. Sound grows from a long mellow whimper between his pursed lips, to a shout when the trumpets sound, a voice like thunder summoning the gods to rain, to snow, to ice, to thaw, to deluge, to blow hurricanes through houses, to spray mist and douse the world in honey—in whatever the conductor summons in his muddled mind.
I remove the washing-up brush from his hand, and help Dad into his wing-back chair as I sing his favourite lullaby.
I enjoyed reading this. It was easy to visualise.
Poignant
Very fine writing: as Emily Dickinson urged, you tell the truth but tell it slant. Bravo.
This is an elegant story. Right now I have so many friends who could relate to this sad, slow loss. Nicely done!