My dad begins to lose his accent. He tells me, through a sigh, that he once called this place home. After so many years away, he is most often found at the coast – sees grief in the ebbing and flowing. We both know there’s plenty of ghosts to go around. He swears he caught one while my back was turned- holds up a half-chewed tire, tangled in fishing line. His voice is faded and softer now, but it carries the shadows of seacoalers breaking their backs to glean just a few pounds of the fine dust. When my dad speaks, I swear I can hear the whirring and grinding of machinery, billowing of sails drowning out screeching of gulls. On days like this, for better or worse, it’s as if he never left. Now, he tells me the same stories, only each time it’s a little different. There is the memory of rag & bone men, scavenging for iron. Or there is the first time he met my mother, words spoken in hushed tones to the thud of distant club music. He fills the gaps with old photographs, so the edges of his memory are sepia. He takes in the air, spitting salt back at the sea. Silently takes my hand in his. His hands, scarred and rough, are echoes of rockpooling in muggy summers- that familiar sting of salt water in fresh wounds, born from wrestling the crabs for his older sister. Some outing or another that ended in tears. A beach day dulled by downpour, dropped chips trodden into sand. An attempted escape to the fish shop, spare change, dripping vinegar. Hear the chatter of small talk, lost consonants falling to the floor like scraps. My dad used to know this place like the back of his hand. Used to tell me of days spent biking to nearby villages with just a pound coin and a sense of direction. Coming back to cool evenings, the low glow of streetlamps and rolling fog. Now there’s just a shored shipwreck and the faint smell of burning tobacco.
My dad begins to lose his accent. He tells me, through a sigh, that he once called this place home. After so many years away, he is most often found at the coast – sees grief. in the ebbing and flowing. We both know there’s plenty of ghosts to go around. He swears he caught one while my back was turned- holds up a half chewed tire, tangled in fishing line. His voice is faded and softer now, but it carries the shadows of seacoalers breaking their back to glean just a few pounds of the fine dust. When my dad speaks, I swear I can hear the whirring and grinding of machinery, billowing of sails drowning out screeching of gulls. On days like this, for better or worse, it’s as if he never left. Now, he tells me the same stories, only each time it’s a little different. There is the memory of rag & bone men, scavenging for iron. Or there is the first time he met my mother, words spoken in hushed tones– to the thud of distant club music. He fills the gaps with old photographs, so the edges of his memory are sepia. He takes in the air, spitting salt back at the sea. Silently takes my hand in his. His hands, scarred and rough, are echoes of rockpooling in muggy summers– that familiar sting of salt water in fresh wounds, born from wrestling the crabs for his older sister. Some out,ing or another that ended in tears. A beach day dulled by downpour, dropped chips trodden into sand. An attempted escape to the fish shop, spare change, dripping vinegar. Hear the chatter of small talk, lost consonants falling to the floor like scraps. My dad used to know this place like the back of his hand. used to tell me of days spent biking to nearby villages with just a pound coin and a sense of direction. Coming back to cool evenings, the low glow of streetlamps and rolling fog. Now there’s just a shored shipwreck and the faint smell of burning tobacco.
