Peter Day

Pictures of My Father

Here there is a story. It is the story’s end and another beginning - that only reveals itself through this new story, each new discovery and change. Its transient narrative is composed in dust; whose light and dark neighbours map its days, this dust or the slow burr of a mark - why did the carpets remain? They are both unmoved and unflustered an audience to each slow decay. I thought we asked for the house to be cleared. In the old wiring and sockets lurks a kind of danger, the kind that comes with age, of being redundant and scrapped, which they will be, being outdated and outmoded - old age seems to leave fashion behind as the end nears - even though their usefulness has not really passed.

It’s empty, but my peace is not assuaged. My anger and bittersweet emotions have only partially been analysed. I want the space to give me love; my life here has not had its portion.

Entirely abandoned apart from the light, scratching at the dust. Ask the dust and dust replies in transient gratifications. Signs of ‘our dad’, all too briefly - over there, momentarily dancing across tired and worn out surfaces, a picture that allows me to remember, to think for a while before the thoughts disappear.

Here the doors we did not take, the rooms we no longer inhabit lead us away to where we ourselves become invisible between what is and what might have been.