Monday, 16 August 2010

A game of consequences

Patrick was a stocky type of a man. One with a kind face and a warm heart. He met his best friend on a boating trip back in 1986. A dropped oar turned slowly into a quiet friendship- punctuated with letters, drawings and newspaper clippings about natural marvels.
Patrick didn't make friends too easily.
He found it hard to give his heart to people, he didnt know what would be left for himself if he did. Too often did he turn back around rather then keep going, always cutting his hair instead of letting it grow.
One spring Patrick and Michael, tired of daily routines and silence decided to see some of the world. It was a simple affair, the type where you get on the bus at your doorstep and don't get off until you reach your destination.
Michael used to tell me the story at least once a week, i would listen as if it was always the first time.
A soundtrack to a holiday. For that week only it was 1969 again....
tiny hearts breaking like muffled church bells. Bread turning stale on the counter. Hands held loosely under tables. And Michael, just a child, watching his grandfather sick with cancer.
A summer spent with the curtains drawn, a summer not to be remembered fondly.
A tin of travel sweets that sat by a chair remain untouched, the sunday visits carried on. Money under carpet tiles in the dining room next to a small wooden cupboard full of condiments and freshly polished shoes by the fireplace. A long space full of somebody else's things, rooms that belonged to other people, rooms that you can't even be sure if they existed anymore.

Michael telling me stories. In Whitby, along the curve of the coast, i felt his quiet shame as his brother pushed his face into the mud. I saw his eyes, white and open against the dirt, his knees pulled up tight behind the dustbin.
I heard his mother calling him to dinner, and felt his half grown body rocking back and forth in the rain. We watched the sea pull itself back, like an intake of breath,
Michael telling me stories.

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