Remember you used to make rugs. I say
as his fingers stray towards the dry itch of eczema.
Don’t scratch. Just rub. I say, then
take his fingers in my hand and gently file the nails.
It always calms him, so I leave one hand for later.
A month later his ashes scratch and dry my cupped hands.
I wrote this thirteen years ago. On the anniversary of his birth we opened a bottle of his favourite wine: Châteauneuf-du-Pape (2015). The previous week, I had walked around my childhood haunts, past the corner where once was an off-licence in an otherwise residential area. It was always our last ritual stop on the Saturday morning shopping expedition. He would carefully choose the one bottle of wine to be shared with June over the weekend. Their life was provincial, routine and comforting after the trauma they’d lived through. They spoke little about the past and even less about their experiences during the war: Bletchley Park for my mother, Africa, D-Day, Burma for my father. But, each time I sip that dark, spicy, brambly wine, I feel closer to them, appreciate the hardships they endured, and belatedly understand why they chose the life they did in the aftermath of World War 2.