Being old is the time to think back. So that's what Graham does. With regrets and all.
|He was born by the sea, in a squat house with cold dark windows for eyes. By the time he was three, all he knew was the bright stipple of gulls on water and the wailing of pink shells pressed against his ear. When he was five, he learned to write his name on the front wall, with a bold piece of chalk from the beach. He marvelled at the crumbling dusty letters. The words of a child, looking like old men sinking to their knees in the dark grey cement. Their zimmerframes creaking. But it was only the front gate, and his mother's solid crake, "Come on Darling, Mummy's here." The sharp wind had only gone and brought tears to his eyes. They trundled down his cheeks, slow as broken trains. Now he was one of those old men, a crumbled version of his own name. It was ironic how he reminded himelf of something he had created as a child. He created himself. |
Ah, so many memories and no one to share them with. The war stole his chances at love.
Another tear train tracked its way down his cheek. But this time, it was not the wind that had caused it.