There are three of us altogether. My father’s first wife died of tuberculosis and left him with a son. My mother’s first husband died and left her with a son. Mother’s first husband designed airplanes and died whilst testing one. Because he wasn’t in service that particular Sunday, she never received a widower’s pension. A beauty she was, from an Alsatian village I won’t name as it’s none of your business. She also happened to be a hairdresser. Father? From Strasbourg. A hairdresser too and looking for a new wife from the trade so they could set up a business together. Someone who knew them both arranged the meeting. Father drove up from Strasbourg to take a look at her.
They got married and made me. (from Verses Nature, forthcoming)
Strolling through a flea market recently, I was surprised to see various stands selling old photos. Brushed hands with a fellow rummager. Sorry. Smiles. Interesting, aren’t they? Fates in a bucket, like peas…
What do you plan on doing with them? Really? Me too.