Friday, 14 September 2012

Response 1: Late night call

I collect the sympathy cards and drop them in the recycling bin, before moving onto the empty glasses and plates.
The last mourners left a few hours ago and the sky is black.
Mum had sobbed herself to sleep around 10.  She still hadn’t accepted that there were no remains to bury, but I had.  As soon as I heard the news that he was gone, I knew it was true.
“He was such a good man” they had muttered as they grasped my hands with their sweaty palms, looking into my eyes with mock sincerity.
The phone rings, deafening in the silence.  I almost drop the plates, spilling coleslaw onto the rug.
I don’t know how many more of these calls and their endless outpouring of grief I can take.
 I try to ignore it, but the noise starts to bore into my head.
“Hello”, I say wearily.
“Son?”

1 comment:

  1. Good entry. Did the dad fake his death or was it a genuine mistake? Be good to see where this goes so maybe next week's theme should be "Rest of the Call" ha.

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