Nostalgic

  • White Sandals

    Image by Jörg Peter from Pixabay “Those ones?” “Which ones?” Lizzy asks. “On the turntable.”  I jab the glass, as if I am trying to attract the attention of the shoes. “I wish they would stop turning round so I can see them properly.” “But do you like them?” “I can’t tell.” “Shall we go in and take…

  • A Shift in Time Zones

    At breakfast, she lays Harold’s place: toast the way he likes it, just turning brown; a jar of thick-cut marmalade. She doesn’t like how the rind gets stuck in her dentures, but it’s his favourite. Her son, Ben, knocks on the window and waggles his hand. He’s in and out at all hours, keeping an…

  • Livingroom in Fading Light

    Nothing has moved in the living room since you left. Crispy almond slices in the golden autumn light sit on a plate like pale petals. The afternoon turns into dusk, soft yellow melting into blue and orange flames on the horizon. Dust settles on the floor at the foot of the grand piano.  The untouched…

  • The Roaring Sixties

    “What’s your name, sweetie?” The barefoot woman in a flowing muumuu smiled as she straightened the garland of flowers in her abundant brown hair. I shaded my eyes through my hand from the bright summer sun to discern the source of the laughing voice. What I found was a portrait of a round face with…

  • Marginalia

    Mouse-like, she lived on the fringes of polite society. She was one of the the overlooked, ignored, unremembered and to others, unremarkable.  The last to arrive, the first to leave. “A bus to catch,” she’d murmur, gathering her beige handbag and creamy leather gloves, buttoning her tweed coat. No one offered her a lift or…

  • Relative Connections

    “Ready for inspection?” I’d salute and stand to attention in my camouflage Tee and black trackies. It was just you and me, no Ma to fuss and dress me like a lady. My pyjamas always spread out in dead man’s pose; empty arms crossed at the chest. Breakfast was always 7:30a.m. “Routine. That’s what will…

  • Saint Valentine’s Day

    “It’s the 12th of February,” I say to my mother. “I’m not stupid,” she tells me, “I know what you’re doing.” I have driven all the way from Montreal with gifts of diabetic chocolate warming in the backseat. It is a full three hours to my mother’s house in the country, past miles of dead…

  • Carol Practice

    The children’s voices warmed the chilly air. ‘The snow lay . . . deep and crisp and even . . .’ Ellen clapped her hands. “Wonderful Class 3a. However, I believe we can do a little bit better. Let’s try it once more.” Several eight-year olds pouted and one puny boy slumped to the frosty…

  • Dominoes

    I remember running to the Red Lion at teatime, skinny knock kneed limbs jumping oily puddles. Intent on my mission. “Fetch your Da for supper lass.” Ma would flick her pinny at me to get me moving. I’d laugh and skip out of the way. Da didn’t own a watch. He counted time in pint…