An Old Man's Photographs

“I can’t believe your Granddad finally left,” said Hazel.

In front of the bungalow, sullen, sexual, nearly a woman, Keisha said nothing.

Inside, the hallway was a cosy tunnel smelling of stewed meat and vegetables. Somewhere a clock ticked.

“He says he’s taken everything he wants to the home. Bag up everything
for the Salvation Army coming on Tuesday.”

Keisha, uninterested, checked her mobile.

Hazel still felt like a child. Embarrassed, she pushed grey suits and darned socks into bin bags.

At the home, Keisha laughing and joking with him tightened her chest with jealousy.

He never let her forget her mother left for another man. He hardly spoke as she cleaned and cooked for him. She could still smell the red nylon dress she saved her Saturday wages for burning in the garden, hear him shouting ‘slut, slag, harlot’ as he forbid her another boyfriend.

In the kitchen, Keisha gasped. Rushing, picturing a cut or burn, Hazel saw the blush rise across Keisha’s face before she saw the Polaroids scattered like playing cards on the lino.

In each, a different woman smiled, hand on her father’s erect penis. In each, he wore his wedding ring.

Kneeling, Keisha started giggling.