Hyperreality

My eyes are drawn to the weathered bricks, against which the masticating head of my mother is set.

I scan for matching pairs that must surely be there, searching either side of the chimney breast that terminates where it meets the top of the seat.

Each brick is cracked and scarred, denoting age and the trauma of its repurposing; shadows cast from four pendulum bulbs exaggerate the effect.

Elsewhere, the walls are a bland magnolia, sparingly scattered with coloured abstracts and washed-out local scenes; no further exposed brick.

My mother offers observations, to which the responses are well-rehearsed.  I pour the tea, avoiding the gape, noting orderly mortared joints of uniform depth, precisely edged.  Could each brick be unique?

And how we humans expand our reach to the limit of curiosity; rooting across the planes, briefly flowering, dying back to places like this, in whose minutiae we over-invest.

Conversational clichés phase out, then in, among the general thrum, repeated phrases, safe responses, same, same.

Head is filled with music: high fidelity, perfect precisely intense arrangements; unidirectional, segued one to another; rendering from my head to my feet.  I’m beginning to understand.

“How’s your fish?”

“Nice, thanks.  How’s yours?”

“Not as good as it used to be.  Is there any tea in that pot?”

I expect there is.