Tin Man

by Sarah Winman

It was the first of many memories he had, of how Michael sought Dora’s attention in those early days, how he clung to her every word as if they were handholds up a cliff face.

You may never see snow like this again. See how it changes the landscape. See how it changes you.

Her eyes were sunken and the light they emitted was dusk not dawn.

They watched the shifting colours of the sun and the deep shadows eavesdropped on their grief, and the vivid descant of birdsong slowly muted to unimaginable silence.

He remembered he even had a theme once, only red flowers or variants thereof, until he realised the muntjacs were partial to a diet of bright petals.

Days went by clearing the garden. Slow, one-handed work that quietened his mind and had him rising with intention. He ate breakfast outside, planning the day’s assault, the smell of early rain and mud curiously exhilarating.

In the Scuola Grande, they stood in awe as the Bible took shape and form above them and beside them. The beauty, the anguish of humanity startled them and silenced them.

He’d never asked them when the affair began but always presumed it ran along invisible tracks parallel to his parents’ marriage.

he thought he looked so unsure of himself in this modern world because he saw none of it coming, not old age nor old thinking.

The front door shut. Silence now. The lingering smell of her perfume and lost, misunderstood years.

His flat was a lonely space or a clever space. Minimalist to the extreme. It was a place of contemplation not distraction. A place of thought.

I can’t do deadlines when everyone is dying.

Once, in the throes of passion, I’d declared I’d do anything for him. So this now, this is my anything for him. How shy our bodies are now, G. How sad we are. He likes me to comb his hair because he remembers when he was still handsome. I do it. And I tell him he’s still handsome.

I am fat, and I lift up my jumper. This wasn’t here yesterday, I say. This is trespassing.

A broken-down shack that sold sandwiches during the day and dreams at night.

just because you can’t remember, doesn’t mean the past isn’t out there. All those precious moments are still there somewhere.

A moment of authenticity when fate and blueprint collide and everything is not only possible, but within arm’s reach.

What’s a muse? And you said, A rare force, personified as a woman, who inspires creative artists.

I constantly sought relief in the cool heart of churches and hidden courtyards where I discovered the work of photographers I’d never heard of. (I made a note of Raymond Depardon.)

Amongst Women.

Sometimes one frame is all it takes.