By Cole Beauchamp
After writhing rain twists the motorway into a black eel. After prophetic rain heralds the doorbell. After the grandfather clock metronomes your absence. After windows weep and black bins swallow unwanted casseroles.
It’s then that the stories begin.
You’re at work, you’re on a trip, you’re visiting friends. Still, the cedar-and-pine scent of your shirts oxidises. Still, your pillow remains undented. Still, the children swoop in, insisting it’s time to pack up your things.
I retreat to the quiet of the kitchen and polish your silver hairbrush, sew a missing button onto your navy cardigan, and think how pleased you’ll be.
Excuse the adjective but beautifully conceived and written.
Such a gentle story of loss. It gives peace.
Very poignant and moving.