Memories

He has had a good day, filled with memories. Not seaside sand castle, fish and chip, Punch and Judy memories but little ones.

He’s sitting by the window looking out on the autumn evening: misty thoughts of fireworks and Christmases, watching starlings swoop and storm across the darkening sky.

Patterns like the kaleidoscope that he had for his birthday.

He likes those thoughts. The words in those thoughts.

He thinks that he used to work with words, painting pictures for others to see but now words are like jigsaws; a puzzle, pieces lost forever and pieces that won’t connect.

They gave him a photograph today; said it was him with his mum. He’s sorry that he shouted now but that wasn’t him! The man in the photograph was young and handsome; he knows that he is old and ugly.

He thinks that his mother came yesterday. Not the weary work worn mum, but the beaming beautiful wedding-photo faced mum.

She didn’t hug him though. He would love a hug, not a pat on the back consoling hug but a warm soft hug, face buried in her hair. Hair scented with lemon or rosemary. You know, affectionate.

Or a hug from that beautiful girl, what was her name? You know, passionate. Dark hair, beautiful ice blue eyes and a laugh that would melt his heart. Not many laughs here. She wore a perfume, a grown-up kind of perfume, not patchouli oil.

There aren’t any perfumes here. Or even scents, only smells. Smells of cooking and cabbage, death, and decay. Oh, and air freshener.

That man came earlier; keeps coming, keeps saying he’s his son.

He can’t be. His son is young with long hair, strong as an ox. That man is old, fat, and bald, couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding.

Puddings!

They don’t cook like my wife, not proper dinners with puddings and laughter.

He wonders where his wife is and when she will be back.