These days my father watches life through a television screen, anything else is far too serious and alive so he says.
From time to time he prods and scratches a hole in his head or at least something that resembles a healed up bullet wound. ‘Bugger them!’ he insists. ‘It’s time to die anyway and your ugly chops aren’t helping!’
I don’t bother to reply with any soothing words, there’s no point; he’s made up his mind and I know my father. At least I think I do. At eighty three he hasn’t got long and yet, I’m the only one in the nursing home room who seems to care or at least wonder, if I will finally grow up when he begins his journey to nowhere.
His brittle hand grips a copy of Ludovic Kennedy’s personal discourse on atheism, as he stares at me trying to decide whether he has done a good job or not. For a brief moment he smiles, there is a hint, something. ‘Go on then. Bugger off. Coronation Street is on in a minute’.
Coronation Street? I’d never known him to watch a soap opera before, perhaps it has something to do with the hole in his head.
Or maybe, it’s just mine reaching out to touch him.