Sipsworth

by Simon Van Booy

But life for her was finished. She knew that and had accepted it. Each day was an impersonation of the one before with only a slight shuffle – as though even for death there is a queue.

The home she had given up on the other side of the world would have other people by now. She imagined them unrolling leaves of newspaper to reveal objects that were important or fragile, but in truth were just links in a chain that led you back to the beginning.

wonder if she is, in fact, upstairs in her bed sleeping soundly – and that moments later will open both eyes to the milky stillness of her room. She lets her gaze travel from the discarded object down the long row of houses on Westminster Crescent, as though a light, or a door, or the neighbour’s cat might appear and break the skin of dreaming. But nothing moves. No one comes.

Everyone she has ever loved or wanted to love is gone, and behind a veil of fear she wishes to be where they are.

Helen can feel steam on her face like a pair of hands.

Those who in life had held back in matters of love would end in bitterness. While the people like her, who had filled the corners of each day, found themselves marooned on a scatter of memories. Either way, for her as for others, a great storm was approaching. She could sense it swollen on the horizon, ready to burst. It would come and wash away even the most ordinary things, leaving no trace of what she felt had been hers.

Long ago one just like it had belonged to her son. And herein lies the cruel paradox of human existence – not that you die, but that all happiness eventually turns against you.

Could what we call coincidence be something intended, with a meaning purposely hidden? That would imply design. A God. But what sort of God would strike down a boy’s father at dinnertime? Then allow the boy to grow into a beautiful, gentle man, only to snatch him, too?