Tuesday, April 15, 2014

An Unreliable Witness

George Stavrinos


Our decision to visit the cemetery wasn’t for any particular reason other than it’d been a while since we’d all been together and even longer since we’d visited dad’s grave.
Subsequently none of us could remember the exact location, spreading out among the rows of headstones like birds in a freshly ploughed field; we scanned the names while mum, frail and bent like a question mark, followed behind.
To be honest, I’m not the best person to be telling you this, I’ve already misled you. The decision to visit dad’s grave was Sally’s. We were all around at hers for Easter and as we began the meal she made the suggestion as if she’d only just thought of it. I could see from Janet’s face that she would rather not have had this opportunity to revive the painful past, but never one to stand up and be counted, she made no objection. Nobody did, least of all me, the one who, in the eyes of my sisters, carries the burden of being at least partly responsible for his death.

Tales for the attention-span deficit reader

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