. . . . in which lucy is cradling dad, who is still alive, in his room and kissing his forehead and telling him how much she loves him . . . .

there was a sort of whisper in the forest, an amalgam of winds that thrashed this way and that, whistled down corridors, roared in the canopy, of limbs outstretched, trying to overcome their shyness, of the transfer of nutrients between intertwined roots, of inosculating trunks, branches, of fluctuations in the habits of networks of penetrating mycelia, of the fading and flourishing of mosses and lichen, of creeks forging new paths, enthused with the surge of snowmelt in higher altitudes, of the changes in atmospheric pressure, of the unrelenting certainty of downpours, the influx of positively charged ions, of the size and weight and frequency and distribution of rain droplets, of their paths both well-worn and infinitely varied towards the tender earth, of the subterranean activities of beetles on the rotting deadwood, of the tendril perversion of vining plants, of the arboreal locomotion of small animals, of twigs that small birds assembled here, set up camp, a cornucopia of the remotest extremities of all the other trees in the area, of the murmuration of swallows, of birdsong, the cascading patterns of which, undulating, propagating from tree to tree, of the movements of birds and pollinators rudely probing us, of the rhythmic pulse of fireflies and the soft persistent glow of bioluminescent fungi, of the tickling of swordferns, of the tightening grips of epiphytic plants, of the whirring of twirling samaras, of the shafts of light softly filtered through leaves, through the dusty, amber forest haze, of softly dappled light fairies, that Jimmy, who I had not seen since we were mere saplings really, was stricken with another infected canker, from which he would this time most likely not recover, would not have long before being delivered most finally to the forest floor, and I, forever fixed to this point now, entertained no hope of seeing my brother again, or any of them really, no notion of family now save for these memories, save for this innumerable collection of trees all clinging to this green earth I suppose, recalling afresh the agony of the first time we were separated, back in the nursery, my baby brother, a mere sapling, too young then to join me and Albert and Mary, hearing, when we were reunited, of the ghastly destruction brought by the storm of ‘39 to greenhouse 4B, a terror from which he never fully recovered, would continue to shake his leaves in a manner, though almost imperceptible, most unnatural, felt so dead inside for so long, which is funny because I am mostly dead inside, and that dream I always had, the one where I uprooted myself and could move around freely, where I seemed to know where Jimmy was and took myself on a little trip over there, paid him a visit, he made me tea and fried up some eggs, eggs in a basket, nice little nestegg, and we sat in the little garden that he tended, talked about mom and dad, which was strange because i knew that mom took many lovers, in a sense, birds and the bees, but in the dream

when dad died it was like a quiet bomb had been detonated that made mum take his phone not forty-eight hours after to get it wiped and swapped out for a free upgrade and made mum gaslight lucy about the fact that dad had ever given her the epitaph that he wanted and made up her own with mary and made lucy tell my aunt all the family secrets and then worry that she had said too much and that she’d tell my other aunt and that maybe she’d even take legal action against her for things that happened thirty seven years ago and made lucy worry that mum and mary were conspiring against her and that dad was really the only thing that was standing in the way of her becoming destitute and made mum and mary’s actions not entirely inconsistent with that and made mum ring lucy using dad’s phone the day after he died and she thought for a second that he was calling her and made mum ring me not once and when i rang her only spoke about the fact that the internet was broken and how she wiped his phone less than forty-eight hours after and how she had already given away some precious things and did a spring clean of his room and gave ross the pillows that he died on and made mum text me to say that the turkish delight i got her for christmas was shit and that i should get my money back from harrods because mary had exhausted attempts to get some free shit out of them directly without my knowing and made mum decide that dad was a catholic after all and made mum decide along with mary and matthew that dad would like to come to his own funeral in jeans because that’s how he felt about mary and matthew’s wedding and didn’t realize that dad took enormous pride in his appearance for things that actually mattered and made mum scold my aunt for being too ill to come but not ill enough to be dead and made mum go out shopping for a new coat the very next day and lie to marks and spencer about the king charles spaniel with a bladder infection and congestion that she was wheeling around in a child’s perambulator being in fact a service animal of all things and made my mum insist that she could honestly look my dead dad in the eye and tell him unflinchingly that she did not would not sign the dnr in spite of the fact that she delayed calling the doctor for sixteen hours because she’d have to wait on the phone or they’d send someone she hadn’t seen before and that would be annoying for some reason and when the paramedics did finally come prevented him from going to hospital in spite of the fact that it was his wish to go to still be alive

The first time I fucked up my face by falling off my bike and getting my horn rims embedded in my right eyebrow, over fifteen years ago now, I spoke to my dad from the hospital and the first thing he asked me was whether the bike was alright. It put a rift between us that neither one of us was able to repair.

The last time I spoke, and will ever speak, to my dad I told him, in a euphemistic way, how I had got so high the night before that I passed out and landed on my glasses again and put a gash in my face, in the exact same spot, on the other eyebrow. I was struck this time by his gentle humanity, even in his own frailty. And I wish now that I had had the vulnerability back then to confront him, to talk about how hurt, betrayed, abandoned I felt. Because I know now that he would not have stood for that, that he did care deeply, only ever wanted me to be safe, but didn’t always know what to say or how to act. And I wish it hadn’t taken me all of that time to fully appreciate that. I love you, Dad.

the way he would laugh, the pirate one, har-harrr, winking, the more sardonic hur-hur and sometimes a haw-haw like you stepped into a big old pile of cow shit in only your flip-flops, schadenfreude, of uncontrolled hilarity, coming from somewhere deep inside, HHHAAA HHAA HA hhhaaa hhaa ha, or a mouthless stifled snorting explosion, the way his brow would furrow up high and his eyes would squint together at the most outrageous part of a story, the way I have only seen him and Albert do it, the way I would do it, only when talking to him and he sees Albert in me, the way he would close one eye and tilt his head when doing his pirate laugh, Robert Newton, the way he would “ruin” photographs with that face or picking his nose, the way he would eventually give you something more authentic that wasn’t a smile if you bothered to wait long enough, like the last photo I took of him, the way both of them were pure him, the way he meekly obliged like he just knew, the way he would muss his hair that was wild from bad hair cuts and only washing with soap, Marty, Great Scott, har-harrr, the way he would bend his fingers, exercises exercises we must do our exercises, what’s on the itinerary today, in a state of deshabille, the rain in spain falls mainly on the plain, zee rain in zpain fallz mainly in zee fucking buckets, hm-HM, hm-HM, hm-HM hm-HM hm-HM, the way he would do rasgueados on the table or in the air or finger a passage rhythmically while humming along, 🎵 please release me let me go 🎵, the way he would raise those big bushy eyebrows and say he was growing them out to comb back and cover his baldness, the way he rolled his eyes and winced whenever Sue talked over him, the way he rolled his eyes and winced whenever Sue spoke for him and got it wrong, the way he rolled his eyes and winced whenever Sue did fucking anything, the way he rolled his eyes and winced whenever Mary did fucking anything, the way he yelled out in pain and looked at me like a hurt little boy when Mary grabbed his arm and pulled it, the same arm she broke and kept pulling until I told her to stop because that wasn’t enough by itself, the way he would scarf down his dinner, the human dustbin, the way he would more unapologetically scarf it down and leave the table to go watch television as he got older, the way he was always watching or reading or listening to the news, non compos mentis, the time we were looking for a Crombie overcoat in London and saw George Melly and he approached him meekly and George Melly was a complete cunt to him and I was embarrassed and I was never sure if he was too or if he hadn’t noticed that George Melly was being a cunt to him, the way he would scratch his five o’clock shadow with his thumbnail and it would make a noise, the way I loved that noise, triffick, the way he was not too bad, the way he was every day, in every way, getting better and better, the way how if he was feeling better tomorrow he would get out in the garden or do some work on the bike or work on the train set, the way I think he still thinks that if he’s feeling better tomorrow he’ll get out in the garden, the way he knew where every single fucking thing in the house was, every screw or cable or piece of rope or catalogue, the way he loved the Blue Moons but was more ambivalent about the Icebergs and how that David Austin was a load of bloody crap, the way he tried to order the roses behind Sue’s back on his deathbed, don’t tell your mother, the way he tried to get Lucy in on it because she was sneaky and could keep a secret, the way Sue would give him hell over the least thing but somehow it was worth risking everything for the roses, the way I offered him some Beethoven and he said ooh yeah I’d love a bacon sandwich, the way you hadn’t had a bacon sandwich until you had one from that place off London Bridge, the way he was right about that, you hadn’t, ham egg chips and peas, the way I only really felt myself sometimes when I talked to him, the way I only used my real voice which is a South London voice I suppose when I talked to him and that part of me is also gone forever, the way he wasn’t too affectionate but he hugged me at Folkesone Central the last time we were both there and the last two times I saw him in Chester, load of crap, sod ‘em, sod the lot of ‘em, not too bad, mind how you go, the way he got electrocuted because he liked playing golf most of all when no other fucker would go out, the way he lost himself in golf for two years in Fiji, the way he alluded to existential questions of golf balls and the bleak loneliness of life at sea but was almost always cheerful, the way he only lost his temper a few times ever, the way he was much better at finding golf balls than losing them, knickers and suspenders, Dominickers, the epitome of sartorial elegance, maniacal laughter, sangfroid, the way he was wrong about evolution but insisted he was right, the way he had a lot of tall tales, the way he knew the name of every cloud, the way he seemed to relish losing his teeth, har-harrr, matey, Speckled Jim, the way he hated Peter Cook for making comedy out of Cerebral Palsy and enjoyed seeing his head being cut off in Blackadder, the way he loved Baldrick, Frank Spencer, Trigger, someone sweet and innocent and kind-hearted who seems to infuriate the others, the way he’d seem to enjoy winding all those people up, the others, the way the world would be much better if we were all Baldricks or Franks or Triggers, the way he thought he had the criminal gene, the way he got me to forge documents for him when I was a kid, the way he took things in lieu of overtime, the way he had exquisite taste but was also an iconoclast, the way he loved his mum until the day she died, the way he loved his mum until the day he died, the way he would have a fry up when the old witch went away, smattering of butter, the way he was just a helpless little boy, the way you’d wonder if he’d ever cut his own hair left to his own devices but he didn’t like mine much, defenestrate, teaaaaa, teaaaaaa, decimate, hanged, successful bowel movement, an exchange of Billingsgate, the way he would have an exchange of Billingsgate with himself, shit, shave and a shower, the rain in spain, zis is zee naughty one, load of filth, the cat crept into the crypt, crapped and crept out again, 🎵 the black cat spat in the yellow cat’s eye and the tabby cat said gawd blimey 🎵, the crapton fictor, did you go to the acropolis, the way he would say Happy New Year, Jimmy, on you birthday, 🎵 curry in dee morning, curry at night 🎵, stand by your beds, hands off your cocks and on with your socks, a bath once a year whether she needed it or not, Shirley MaClaine, Inspector Clouseau’s herringbone stalker, the place where all the nobs hangout, who let Tommy out of prison, who’s dropped their guts, qui s’excuse s’accuse, snatchbox, The Baby’s Revenge by Nora Tits, when you hear the price you’ll shit yourself, sue ‘em, hello sailor, ere, har-harrrr, the way a tonne of cement landed on his big toe and fucked it up, the way one foot was bigger than the other and i wasn’t sure if it was always that way or changed after the tonne of cement landed on his big toe, the way he was very particular about tonnes, tunnes and tons, the way he was very particular about laying and lying, the way he would tell me every time that attorney is synonymous with crook, the way he had an ohrwurm in The Humming Chorus and he asked me my advice and I told him to go ahead and listen to The Humming Chorus as many times as he damn well liked and he did, the way I eventually got him Madama Butterfly on LP and he was afraid to listen to the whole thing because it seemed indecent on account of how sad it all was, Sir Patrick Moore’s meaty whore, the way he recalled how once when he was at sea they caught a Marlin and it was so much fish that they were eating Marlin for days and eventually they had to throw most of it back into the ocean and that it was one of the saddest thing that he ever saw, the way that it was not a compass but a set of compasses, Pythagorean, the windmill proof, -1² = 1, the number line, the way he fell out with his brother for twenty years but buried the hatchet after the kidney failure, the way he didn’t talk to his sister barely at all and never got round to burying the hatchet, the way he kept up with Albert the whole time even though he seemed at times to be the meanest of them all, Decline and Fall, the way he always had a huge umbrella and really why would anyone want anything less, the way he smuggled a salami in his trousers just like in Allo allo, the way he became a man overboard one time and had to be rescued by a helicopter and acted like it wasn’t a big deal but it probably was, I mean it was probably traumatic, the way i slipped on the ice on my bike and landed on my face and got my glasses stuck in my face and had to go to the hospital and he asked if the bike was alright, Sea Island cotton, nah, allez allez, avez-vous un cuppa, sheep shank, heaving line hitch, star knot, bowline, 🎵 the working class can kiss my arse, I’ve got the boatswain’s job at last 🎵, the way he would spin my legs round and round when I was a kid and it would always make me laugh no matter where I started, the way he told me that you’ve seen one and you’ve seen them all and I think he really meant it too and I wondered only after he passed if he might have been ace, or was he traumatised or something else, the way that when Mary broke his right arm he started writing with his left hand like it wasn’t a big deal and I found out that he probably was left handed the whole time and that they made him write with his right hand when he was a kid, the way that that’s really fucked up, the way he was obsessed with Gothic script, the way that his handwriting looked like a kind of calligraphy as if he couldn’t write naturally with his right hand but had to in this very studied, deliberate way, the way that that was still authentically him anyway, illegitimi carborundum, M I double S I double S I double P I, eso sí que es, Johnny Rotten and the Turds, shit, shower and a shave, Mustapha Pony, Farmer Giles, small brown Richard III, the way I made him walk around Asheville dying for a slash and nobody knew it was because he had an enlarged prostate, the way I drove kind of recklessly on the way to Asheville and it was the first time I had driven him anywhere but he gave me the impression I had his approval which seemed like a high bar anyway, the way I overheard, over the baby monitor, that I was a good lad for the way I tucked him in at night and that made the whole thing worth it, the way he was probably a side sleeper but taught himself how to sleep on his back when he slept on the floor for six months for reasons that are not clear, the way he’d make the tent up and sleep in the garden in the summer, lovely bit of fish, herringbone, fleur de lis, RAF braces, the time he was attacked by pirates and I never knew, the way he acted like it was no big deal and I thought that was cool but later learned that it was a big deal, the way it was most likely deeply traumatic and I wish I had responded more sensitively, not too bad, doing a blockbuster, alert the coast guard, do you know the name of your ship, the way, when you got a hair cut, he would say, which one, the way when someone asked him what his name was he would say it still is, the way when you said hi he would say how high, the way you’d always dread his going to sea but he probably quite liked it, fart easy, children of the abyss, the way this feels like his going to sea for the last time, the big sea in the sky, and the biggest feeling of dread

if i had a son, and i never will, i would want to impart
to him all of my accumulated knowledge from years of playing solitaire.

klondike is also the name of a fictional telephone exchange
that if you dial will take you to 555-fucking-nowhere

and that is where i want to go now 

when she told me i was playing solitaire to pass the time, the agony of waiting
each phone call escalating in a way i was not ready to understand
describing a course to somewhere i was bound to
but was certain i was not going

i would tell him how i'd begin to see the cascade when i closed my eyes,
would dreamt of searching its files for an impossible card, or one that would indicate

that it was finally over, yet there is no payoff
in winning, still clicking through to another....

i would tell him about the time that edie played drew her last breath and was xed out
and i lived in a free cell for 2 straight years. 

a friend used to joke about playing strip solitaire, and how appropriate
that seems now, having become indistinguishable from internet pornography, 

they say they made the computer game only to teach
people how to manipulate a pointing device

but it persists now as a means to teach me how to keep
moving when i am all but a dumb terminal.

hearts and diamonds on baize
looks just like xmas. 

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