W7

Mum is everywhere in this house. I should leave and never come back, but I want to stay forever and never stop thinking about her.
I just found an old W7 bus ticket, the ink almost faded, tucked into one of her books. (Margaret Atwood; Life Before Man.)

Maybe the book is hers; maybe it’s not. It’s enough to make me think of her though, and now she’s everywhere. Does she know it’s like this? Is she anywhere? Or is she totally absent, as gone as she feels? Nowhere.

Why the fuck is everything so dramatic to me these days? I can’t look at a fucking bus ticket without crying.

Fuck.

Noisy Ghost Limb

I can hear him clattering as he loads the dishwasher. He always seems to do it as if he has three arms – a rogue extra limb devoted purely to banging and clashing, announcing what he is doing to anyone within earshot. “I’m doing housework”, the extra arm says. “I’m doing something constructive, a duty, and you should be too.”

I hate that phantom arm.

Idle Musing

The curtains trail along the floor – just slightly too long to hang free. Were they designed that way, or was it a mistake of measurement?

I have the same problem with my jeans. They trail along the ground as I walk, fraying away at the heel, loose threads slowly scaling my ankle. I always wear them that way on purpose – who wants too-short jeans? But I always regret that later, when they become unwearable before their time.

How much have I spent on trousers that way?

How much will those curtains cost to replace?