The Spectator at 7am and the Perfect Day
She slipped.
Her hand flew to her head and held it in place.
She has led several lives and still leads some of them.
Did his life replay before his eyes, the distorted
room right itself, the sound of his breath echo?
Moths live strange lives in the dark.
Some things remain a mystery. Always.
From time to time a splinter of glass drops to the floor.
Or a photograph.
Her tears flow backwards throwing shadows on her heart.
Does she harbour vicarious lives beneath her wing?
She hears a cry and has not yet broken the habit.
Under a cracked mirror the innocence of children.
Something dissolves.
Fallen from the shelf, a book: ‘Small Changes’.
He never got over his fear of the light.
Last time she jumped without a parachute
she turned and smiled.
*The Spectator at 7 am and The Perfect Day is also about my father, choosing the
'perfect day' to die, and the time - at daybreak; and about living with the
repercussions of his death, and the emotional consequences.
