Empty Space

My key still fits. I haven't been back here since my mother died.

The house is small, everything close together, staircase shallow. The kitchen is a tiny galley, window looking out onto neat lawn. Everything is clean.

Squatting, I open cupboard doors that hang at awkward angles. Inside, tins of economy baked beans, marrowfat peas, corned beef. Strong lager cans gleam brassily. There is nothing else.

The rest of the house is the same. Silently and carefully, a cold wind has stolen everything, carrying away a lifetime's ornaments and keepsakes.

Sitting in my mother's chair, nervously waiting, the mantelpiece by me is empty.

My Dad arrives, the sound of familiar ritual: Keys on shelf, coat shaken out and hung, slippers on.

Standing before me, his face is shaved raw, hair combed to thinness. Hugging me, he is corded wire and creaking wood, smelling of alcohol and snowy air.

Watching television, we sit on the edge of our seats silently drinking from cans.

The next morning he will give me half an hour to sort through our family photos before binning them.

There's no point in them cluttering up the place, he will say.

I will save all that I can.

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*This story also appears at Un-Made-Up: True stories from the keyboards of real people