Wheelistically @ Claire.NU

We met again the other day; every now and then, you come to me: the scent of pep­per­mint and tobacco; the salt and pep­per mus­tache on a smil­ing top lip; a non­sensical phrase. They are not you, for there could never be another you, but they are echoes of you — trig­gers that fire my memor­ies — remind­ing us all that although you are not here, so much of you still remains here with us.

He was a local man, as you were, describ­ing a life­time grow­ing where he’d been planted. Some people lay down roots else­where as time passes, but not him; not you. There was a kind­ness, a gentle humour, a rhythm and timbre to his words that were so remin­is­cient of you, I wanted to stay and hear his stor­ies all day. Listen­ing to this gen­tle­man, the same age as you would have been had you lived to see this day; his small aged dog; his tales of driv­ing the length and breadth of the coun­try for a liv­ing; the way he enjoyed doing little bits of wood­work in his shed to pass the time, I heard you. I still do.

I often ima­gine the sorts of things you’d say, if you could see the the world today and I play them in my head. It’s my own private way of liv­ing and reliv­ing your stor­ies. You’re no longer here but ever­more, I real­ise your stor­ies live on all around me. That said, I miss them and you. Still.