Home

There was a point when home — where I grew up — didn’t feel like home anymore.

I’m not sure when it was, or what it was that changed. It lost that comfortable familiarity.

We sat in the old bus shelter and ate fish and chips. Dad smothered his with red sauce, and tossed scraps to the seagulls.

His skin was paper thin. He was old, but, now, I could see it as clearly as the crumbling pavements, the silted-up paddling pool.

Difficult to revisit your past. Happy to arrive, happier to leave. I don’t think I’ll go again.