I first saw you on a rainy Thursday afternoon in February. I had been rushing to the restaurant — not because I was in danger of being late, but because I did not like to dawdle. I liked to be in the habit of moving quickly — you cannot take your time in a kitchen.
Read MoreYou’re sitting on an armchair, a mug of tea beside you, your child on your lap. She’s holding a book. She keeps asking where you got it from. You don’t recognise it.
Before you, a blank expanse stretches out, bleak and never ending. There’s nothing in sight that can jog your memory, because there’s nothing in sight. At all. It’s just empty and barren, devoid of anything whatsoever, just you and nothing, just you in nothing, and if you’re the only thing left doesn’t that make you nothing, too?
‘Dad?’ She’s looking at you with big eyes, waiting. As you turn to look at her, you notice something at your side. Something that can make the nothing go away.
Read MoreDo you remember, dear, the autumn? We would read about humans and spirits and ghosts, letting our imagination run wild as we played make-believe. We’d pretend we were spirit detectives, solving cases involving beings of all kinds.
Read MoreThe more I read your diary entries, the more I realise I’m in love with you. You come across as sassy and sarcastic, bubbly and energetic, quirky and illuminating. You come across as so colourful that you ensnared me long ago.
Read More
