By Parson Thru
My daughter’s moved house.
That’s ok. Of course it is. What business is it of mine anyway?
It’s just that I’ll never again enter the room where I saw that little old lady sitting in the corner. It was the first time I ever saw her.
The day she walked in to find my dad dead.
I arrived hours later to see her on the end of the sofa. Cup of tea. Tiny and alone for the first time.
Now my daughter’s moved.
It’s only a room, after all.
Just a rented house.
How many babies and laid-out corpses have been washed down in rooms that no longer exist?
What does it matter?