And so this morning. I peer at the familiar crack in the ceiling through the milky haze that fills the room and if I concentrate can just about make out the sky beyond. The edge of the crack is a mountain range along which rides a man on horseback, silhouetted against an alpine sky as clear as the virgin’s robe. And in that blue, a biplane circles slowly over London, its pilot, my grandfather, making notes and taking pictures.
He wears a leather helmet, with flaps like a spaniel’s ears and his nose is wet with the cold. His left foot touches the rudder pedal and his right knee holds the stick. The tea in his vacuum flask, tucked away behind his seat, is still warm with his anticipation as he scribbles in his notebook and the world below drifts ever more blue towards the dark horizon.
It is Wednesday. It always is. He has been like this for thirty seven years, since Doris died in fact.
No comments:
Post a Comment