Half submerged in darkness and ascending into the light of conscious thoughts and good deeds the house lives and breathes as I do. I am me as the world sees me. I support charities, I go to church, I think good of all but the postman never calls. He leaves the letters, junk mail, the occasional parcel in the boat house. I walk to collect them thinking of seaside holidays and dive bombing seagulls.
Birdsong disturbs my peace. Rooks that live in the rafters of my home call to each other. Chilling echoes of bad times and fears of children trapped in unfulfilled ambitions. I feel free.
The lights of the house flicker three times before illuminating the shadow of the tallest tree across the lake as non existent. It’s Tuesday. I want tomorrow to be Friday, the day of my funeral. It’s a new concept I’ve devised. Why not be present at your own end of life celebration. Hear the eulogy and see the tears falling like rain, a light shower or a torrential deluge if you’re blessed.
A face, old and pale appears at a bedroom window. I wave. It shuffles away appearing at the front door. I wave again and Brian stands by my shoulder, young and athletic. His breath is fetid. He’s been eating sardines again. I watch the shoal beneath the surface of the water. Wishing they were mackerel. He traces the figure three on my forehead and I see Marsha rowing across the lake, sardines jumping into the boat, tomorrow’s lunch sorted.