Histories


A Sunday set aside for remembrance.
Most of the day I am up in the nursery room, painting a tree for the imminent grandchild. Little Grandson sits cross-legged in the cot, asks one question for every brush stroke. Why is paint wet, for example, and where's the owl.
Soup for lunch, two kinds, homemade.
Baby Girl drops by to visit, chewing car keys. She brings Mum and Nan and a light up teddy. Little Grandson kisses her on the nose.
Back at the paint face, the last leaf is lined.
Coffee and cake to celebrate.
Across the world; we see by television; a hurricane has torn up towns, wiped out homes, lives, securities.
Little Grandson is tired, he drags a blanket to the sofa.
A poppy wreath props on the cenotaph. A camera pans over faces: tensed, grieving, respectful faces.



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