Submitted by Paul Daley on
Children grow out of nursery rhymes and leave home, the toys go into boxes for the shed, favourite dogs die. That’s time
The older I get the sketchier my memories of my parents become.
Yes, their images remain frozen in the photo boards on our bedroom wall and in frames on mantelpieces about the house. For a time after they died my prosaic memories of them were so vivid; something of them continued on in the places where we’d shared so much life.
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Those three of our dead parents seem a long, long way away to me now
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