really. Not well. Not any more,’ he replies.
‘Me neither. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call you later.’
Just as I hang up the phone, Pug howls again. She crosses the room to my feet and I’d swear she’s crying.
Two hours later, the dog is still baying. I am sitting at my kitchen table with my head in my hands, cursing Leah. Anna and I seem to have a glass of vodka together, and as I pop another pill, I consider, just for a brief second, crushing one into Pug’s milk.
At 3.16, Pug is Valium-free and silent. I am talking to myself, aware in the blackness of the night that Anna is not really here and I am tonight, apart from this dog, very much alone.
Raw Honey Blogspot 10/10/2012
Once, Death thought he had me. I was there, firmly in his crosshairs. To this day, I think he came for me and just missed out. He’s probably still swearing, muttering to himself, ‘Nearly had her, that Anna Powers.’ I was ten when it happened, in town one Saturday afternoon with my best friend (BF) C and her mum, who had stopped to talk to someone about ten metres behind us.
I heard the sound before I saw it; knew without looking that it was out of control. When I turned, there was a small car, an odd shade of mustard yellow, heading straight for us. I remember my eyes closed as I waited, just knowing it was going to hit me. In reality it can only have been a split second between the hearing, the seeing, and the breeze on my face as it skimmed right by me. I felt it, I really did. If it had been a movie moment, it would have been slowed right down for effect.
A forty-two-year-old man with an unknown heart condition died behind the wheel. If he hadn’t managed to steer a route through the crowd, it doesn’t bear thinking about what might have happened. There were mothers and fathers and prams and babies and shopkeepers and there was BF. And there was me.
‘Carpe diem.’ My dad taught me that expression afterwards. Carpe diem. He used to repeat it a lot. ‘We have only today,’ Mama still says. ‘We should dance, learn, love and sing.’
I still can’t stand the colour yellow – in clothes, flowers, anything – but I do really try to live in the moment. And I still think Death was probably quite pissed off at missing me that day.
Comment: Heartsandkisses152
You were lucky and what a gift it is to grow up with the ideal of living in the moment. I think the world would be a better place if we could all do it, all the time.
Reply: Honey-girl
You’re right!
Comment: BlahBlahBlah1985
Carpe every single fucking diem!
Reply: Honey-girl
I like that
He was up hours before anyone else, had mopped the kitchen floor and made a picnic of sorts before there was a sound from Finn’s bedroom. Bea was, as always at the weekends, sleeping in. The food he had prepared was wrapped in foil and packed in a picnic box he’d found in the garage. A tall flask of coffee completed his efforts.
When Finn appeared, his laptop in his hand, Theo was standing on his head in the furthest corner of the kitchen.
‘Morning, son.’
‘You are so weird,’ Finn said through a stretched yawn. He removed a bowl from a cupboard and shook a box of cornflakes at it, poured half a pint of milk over it and went to take a place on the sofa in the den watching television. ‘Why do you even do that?’ he asked, glancing back over his shoulder.
‘Helps me think. Sometimes when things feel a bit upside down, it’s good to look at them this way.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Don’t get too comfortable. We’re going out.’ Theo lowered his legs and tucked them to his chest before rolling onto his knees.
Finn groaned. ‘It’s Sunday.’
‘So it is. Lots of people are up and going to church. Lots of people are up walking their dogs. We’re going to the beach.’
His son rolled his eyes, then peered at him over the top of his raised bowl. ‘The beach. In February.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? It’s freezing.’
‘Because we can. Now shift your butt up to the shower. We should go soon.’
‘I really don’t want to go to the beach, Dad.’
‘No, Finn, you think you don’t want to go to the beach. I can promise you when you get there, you’ll want to be there.’
‘You don’t need to do this, you know.’ Finn spoke with a mouthful of cornflakes.
‘Don’t speak when you’re eating.’
‘This father-son crap.’
‘Finn!’
‘Really, Dad? You say “crap” all the time … I don’t get this sudden … this sudden need to spend time together.’
Theo swallowed hard. ‘My wanting to spend time with you is hardly sudden. We always spend Sundays together. We used to—’
‘We used to do lots of things together when Mum was here, yes.’ Finn had walked away.
‘And what, we should stop that because she’s not?’ Theo stood at the door to the den and tried hard to keep his voice from rising.
‘Yes,’ his son nodded, and opened up his laptop to his world of Minecraft. ‘We should.’
Theo left the room, walked slowly upstairs to his bedroom. He pulled the bedclothes up, picked yesterday’s jeans off a nearby tub chair and hung them in the wardrobe. Next to them, a jumper of Harriet’s hung on a hanger. He tugged it towards him, lowered his face and inhaled her scent. It wasn’t perfume, but the body lotion she wore, and it lingered in all her clothes. Coconut and spiced orange. He dropped the sleeve and grabbed his coat from another hanger. Downstairs he took a hat and gloves from the coat rack near the hall door. ‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ he called into Finn and closed the front door behind him.
In between his and the next-door neighbour’s house was a path. Just wide enough for two people, it led into public woodland. Theo breathed in, blew
