My fathers watch
Moochin Photoman
Memory is indeed a poet, not a historian, she hums in the corners of your mind, playfully singing her word pictures. Looking at this one you could conjure up that you know this bowl, the smooth coolness of its weight. Remember how you beat it with a hammer and made that rippled dink in the lip; but that was actually John not you. No, you were the one who fell down the stairs at your grandparent’s house, and landed, arse over tip.
Was the crack on the watch face my doing?
No you are thinking of a different watch, one older and uglier, and you only broke the outer case. Amazing that you never broke a single bone, you were a monkey child. It was the brass, coal scuttle that you dented with a hammer; and nobody ever knew.
Tell your poet memory that this is John’s tweed coat too, so don’t you go getting any designs on that. His coat, his bowl, his watch; go away and find your own.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, Rachel Irving and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
