Me unlocking his front door a first: he’d always known when I
drew near, claiming sixth sense: proof of how much he loved me.
It didn’t work in reverse, though I taught myself to recognise
his particular aroma. Linseed oil,
Balkan Sobranie and the whifflings of whatever else he’d been handling that day;
the ragged cuffs of the dirty-blue cotton jumper he always wore thoroughly
impregnated. Me making token complaint
as he enfolded me tightly to his chest.
In the otherwise silent house, a humming.
Another open door.
The fridge, its interior solid blocked with ice.
Just like my heart.
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