Trying to Remember What It Was Like

I sit quietly in a half-trance, trying to remember

you separate the pages of The Daily Telegraph

with a breath, scrutinising every column as

though it contained world-shaking information.

Trying to remember the pub in Hartlepool

where you used to plonk me and my sister

and disappear into the front room for hours

leaving us to challenge regulars to dominos.

Trying to remember your handshake,

that calm look, which turned angry later

when my mother mentioned money, when she

criticised anything you felt fine as it was.