Our Absent Moon
`My uncle
relapsed, took the train to my hometown and asked my parents for a whisky—
‘I got it for him, but I didn’t feel comfortable with it!’ said my father.
‘If he’d asked for it at the end of your chat,’ I said—‘you wouldn’t have got him that whisky.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘But you shouldn’t have got him that whisky.’
My mother—‘He’s weak!’
‘You’ve got to stop saying that. Please tell me you haven’t told him that to his face.’
‘I told his wife.’
‘For fuck’s sake…’
My father was drunk—‘You shouldn’t judge!’ He waved his fork at us both.
My mother carried on eating. I rest my cutlery on the bottom of the bowl, sighed—‘No, youbelieve that only God can judge but I’m an atheist and I don’t give a shit so I’ll judge whoever the fuck I want.’
(‘Is it all right if I get seconds, darling?’)
‘Broadly speaking.’
‘You shouldn’t!’
(‘Yeah, sure. There’s loads.) If you didn’t judge people, you’d be fucked by now.’
‘You. Shouldn’t. Judge.’
‘I got it for him, but I didn’t feel comfortable with it!’ said my father.
‘If he’d asked for it at the end of your chat,’ I said—‘you wouldn’t have got him that whisky.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘But you shouldn’t have got him that whisky.’
My mother—‘He’s weak!’
‘You’ve got to stop saying that. Please tell me you haven’t told him that to his face.’
‘I told his wife.’
‘For fuck’s sake…’
My father was drunk—‘You shouldn’t judge!’ He waved his fork at us both.
My mother carried on eating. I rest my cutlery on the bottom of the bowl, sighed—‘No, youbelieve that only God can judge but I’m an atheist and I don’t give a shit so I’ll judge whoever the fuck I want.’
(‘Is it all right if I get seconds, darling?’)
‘Broadly speaking.’
‘You shouldn’t!’
(‘Yeah, sure. There’s loads.) If you didn’t judge people, you’d be fucked by now.’
‘You. Shouldn’t. Judge.’
I had invited
my parents over for dinner, noting to myself that I was no longer in therapy
and would have to deal with the occasion, before and after, on my lonesome. My
father had been drinking beforehand, reading through the local paper in a small
pub next to the station; upon his arrival into my pink hallway, he loudly recalled
the articles stuck in his mind: the closure of a postal sorting office, pet of
the year, a ladder theft from atop a van between 16:40 Wednesday and Thursday
morning. ‘That’s what I want to read!’ He put his coat on the rack, both
of them, mother & father, entering my living room noisily, asking where the
cat is. The earth dimmed its own light. Ana Frango Elétrico played. Sugar, lime
& mint mushed at the bottom of a glass. Often times I wondered if my father
had always been this way, whether he grew stranger with age, or I more
sensitive to his ways; or both. After dinner, while my mother and I cleaned up,
he slept on the sofa with his head fallen backwards, mouth open. ‘Shall I let
the cat back in?’ ‘Not yet. Let’s clean up.’
In the supermarket, beside the till, above the gum & batteries, was a black bucket of daffodil stems tied by a couple of blue elasticbands. Each was green, foetal perhaps, plucked prematurely, soft, smooth to finger. It was not yet mid-January when spring was pulled from her soil and shoved beneath our nose.
In the supermarket, beside the till, above the gum & batteries, was a black bucket of daffodil stems tied by a couple of blue elasticbands. Each was green, foetal perhaps, plucked prematurely, soft, smooth to finger. It was not yet mid-January when spring was pulled from her soil and shoved beneath our nose.