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Description
--

   I went in to the dinning room cupboard today. the

one with the lock on the front that's never

locked. I think my parents once believed that a

mother's and father's authority alone was enough

to keep idle hands at bay. Of course my father

broke that rule back in 'ninety-two. The cupboard

door was only about the size of a small bookcase

and the doors opened outwards like the arms of a

child for their mother. Inside it was filled with what i

had always passed off as merely my parents

clutter: CDs, tapes, vynils. The only the items i

thought worth any interest were the record player,

the cd player, the cassette player. All complete with

vintage appeal. My hands found an old cassatte:

unforgettable violin classics. Because i couldn't

assume anything about my father, i assumed it was

his. I placed the cassette onto the table behind me.

I'd always loved the placid sound of violins. I'd

wanted to learn. I'd listen to it later. I found

another cd: highlights from the musical cats. My

mind instantly took me back to when my father told

me how he designed the lettering and the logo of

the cats eyes. How he'd sent it off entering a

competition for some company. How he never

recieved any reply. How he'd gone out one day,

returned home and all the copies of the designs

were gone. How he belived someone broken in his

apartment and stole the designs in an effort to

escape paying him any royalties. Because I

couldn't assume anything about my father, I

assumed it was true. I fingered through numerous

CDs, like old photographs. I found I was amazed

when I recognised a few artists: dire straits, bob

marlely, cyndi lauper, the cotton club, decon blue,

magnum, five star, thompson twins, chris rea, paul

simon, paul young, neil young. they all had that

artsy eighties feel to their covers. I tried to match

each CD to one of my parents. My mother

complained plenty about how my father took a lot

of her cds when he moved out back in ninety-three.

So guessing was useless. They were either my

mother's or what my father didn't want. But then

wasn't everything in this house. I placed a stack on

the table behind me of ones I'd recognised. I felt

like slipping into my parent's worlds for a while. I'd

listen to them later. I continued to pry, peircing my

fingers into their aged lives like roots through rich

earth. There was even an easter egg in there. God

knows how long that'd been there for. I didnt lifted

it up to see what was behind. It felt wrong to

remove it. behind it, were scattered photographs, I

snatched them up. Sat back on my knees and

flicked through them. The first group of

photographs were of my father sat on the tail end a

boat. He was smiling. Everything around the boat

appeared pitch black. It was so dark that apart

from the from flash on the camera taking the

picture, I couldnt tell where any light would be

coming from. there were pictures of a group of

about eight men, all in white shirts carrying white

bags onto the boat. which seemed to be as many

as the boat was able to passenger. I never knew

what my father did. I had never asked. It wasn't

that it was taboo, I think it was just that I'd rather

be ignorant than spoil this image that I held of him

with wonder. There were pictures from the boat of

the sky at sunset or at dawn. I couldn't tell the

difference. Another photograph was of three

private jets, each with different logos on them,

which stood infront of a tree filled hillside, with a

few buildings ascending up the side. This was all

news to me. My father used to go on alot of

business trips. often to America. I assumed that's

what this is. There were pictures of these same

men waiting in front of a yellow and black taxi cab,

one man had 'sinal divers' on his bag. There were

other pictures of them together in bars and casinos

and coffee bars and amusement parks and seafood

restuarants called 'the salty dog' where everyone

at the table seemed to be eating lobster. All the

photographs were mixed up. There were some

more from the boat, from the front, passing

another boat, as it was nearing the shores of

wherever. There were other pictures of suburban

ares, people with speedboats on their driveway. So

this musnt have been too far off shore. Then I

came to a picture of a helicopter. Then pictures

from the helicopter looking down on to the shores

of this whereever, with beaches that looked like

everyones typical paradise. Blue skies, white sand

with turquoise waters. There were pictures of them

at the beach. Black men. Not american black men.

more like Carribean black men. They were playing

kettle drums in a bar on the beach and chopping

coconuts. There was a picture of my father under a

tree, throwing his arms up to catch a falling

coconut, it looked like he was laughing. He was

next to a sign displaying 'Beware of falling

coconuts'. I recognised his white olympic tshirt. His

black shorts with the two yellow strips down one

side. His white socks. His white trainers. He always

wore white trainers. I put the photograph to one

side. There were a couple of pictures of a woman.

Maybe his new wife. I wasn't sure, but i didn't think

so. My guessing was merely a question of: From

mother to that? I flicked through more photographs.

There were many of the scenery. The landscapes.

mountains with backdrops that were nothing but

blue. The hotel room that let you know you were on

the beach. The balcony with deck chairs, a

parasol and plants with giant green leaves. and of

course, the ocean. It looked like he'd meant for

these pictures to be shared with somone. The

pictures were gorgeous. My mother had told me

that my father had always been a great

photographer. We had alot of his pictures he'd

taken, hanging on the walls in each room.

   The next group of photographs were of my sister

Lydia, sister Selena, my mother and myself. We

were all young in these pictures. And I

remembered all of it. The first thing that struck me

about my sisters was how long and wavy their hair

used to be. How they used to wear matching

jumpers, inverted swimsuits. They were the girls.

There weren't many pictures of myself though. Oh

wait, no. There was one of me drinking a Coke

outside Epcot centre in Florida. And one wearing a

Mickey Mouse hat outside Disneyworld in a

California. And one of me standing with Lydia

outside our house here in , with something wrapped

around my head, a black man united away shirt on

and my school trousers pulled up almost to my

nipples. I could just look at them and immediately

recall where it was. France. Scotland. Switzerland.

Cyrpus. Italy. Spain. The cars changed. We grew

older. The girls hair got shorter. My father ceased

to exist. There was one us stood next to the red

car. The vauxhall. I wasn't on it. I must have been

taking the picture. It was nice because it was the

only one in the pile with both my mother and my

father. I remembered his baigue jacket, with the

leather cuffs and collar. His brown jumper and how

he always used to wear it showing the collar of a

shirt underneath. His rings. I remember his rings.

and how they felt. They always seemed loose, but

he could never get them off. And his hair. He used

to have long hair. His eyes were small when his

cheeks rose as he smiled, the same way mine do.

Im getting his nose. Im watching my weight. I

flcked through more pictures. Birthdays. Christmas.

I remember that board game. those clothes. Those

smiles. There were pictures of Lydia going away to

some camping trip. She used to have that grunge

look. Black leather jacket, jeans, a grey tshirt, doc

martins. There was a picture of her when she must

have been only about nine or ten. She's on a beach

that dissappears into the sunlight behind her. The

sand is completely covered with markings from the

changing tides, looking like tire tracks all along the

shore. She's got pigtails, a green floral dress, she

walks bare foot holding a bucket of sand. Another

example of my father's brilliance with photography.

When Selena appeared in these photographs, she

was always smiling. I think my fathers exile

affected her more than the rest of us. She was the

middle child. She always felt second to Lydia. And

second to me. But it was never like that. She just

never knew where she was.

   The last picture I came to was of my mother,

myself, Lydia and Selena. All sat on the largest

sofa in the lounge. My mother dressed. Us in our

pyjamas. My father may have been taking the

picture. It may have just been on a timer. But it felt

appropriate for the final picture to be presented

with my fathers absence. It was the way it is now.

The way it was going to be.

--

Description
--

   I went in to the dinning room cupboard today. the

one with the lock on the front that's never

locked. I think my parents once believed that a

mother's and father's authority alone was enough

to keep idle hands at bay. Of course my father

broke that rule back in 'ninety-two. The cupboard

door was only about the size of a small bookcase

and the doors opened outwards like the arms of a

child for their mother. Inside it was filled with what i

had always passed off as merely my parents

clutter: CDs, tapes, vynils. The only the items i

thought worth any interest were the record player,

the cd player, the cassette player. All complete with

vintage appeal. My hands found an old cassatte:

unforgettable violin classics. Because i couldn't

assume anything about my father, i assumed it was

his. I placed the cassette onto the table behind me.

I'd always loved the placid sound of violins. I'd

wanted to learn. I'd listen to it later. I found

another cd: highlights from the musical cats. My

mind instantly took me back to when my father told

me how he designed the lettering and the logo of

the cats eyes. How he'd sent it off entering a

competition for some company. How he never

recieved any reply. How he'd gone out one day,

returned home and all the copies of the designs

were gone. How he belived someone broken in his

apartment and stole the designs in an effort to

escape paying him any royalties. Because I

couldn't assume anything about my father, I

assumed it was true. I fingered through numerous

CDs, like old photographs. I found I was amazed

when I recognised a few artists: dire straits, bob

marlely, cyndi lauper, the cotton club, decon blue,

magnum, five star, thompson twins, chris rea, paul

simon, paul young, neil young. they all had that

artsy eighties feel to their covers. I tried to match

each CD to one of my parents. My mother

complained plenty about how my father took a lot

of her cds when he moved out back in ninety-three.

So guessing was useless. They were either my

mother's or what my father didn't want. But then

wasn't everything in this house. I placed a stack on

the table behind me of ones I'd recognised. I felt

like slipping into my parent's worlds for a while. I'd

listen to them later. I continued to pry, peircing my

fingers into their aged lives like roots through rich

earth. There was even an easter egg in there. God

knows how long that'd been there for. I didnt lifted

it up to see what was behind. It felt wrong to

remove it. behind it, were scattered photographs, I

snatched them up. Sat back on my knees and

flicked through them. The first group of

photographs were of my father sat on the tail end a

boat. He was smiling. Everything around the boat

appeared pitch black. It was so dark that apart

from the from flash on the camera taking the

picture, I couldnt tell where any light would be

coming from. there were pictures of a group of

about eight men, all in white shirts carrying white

bags onto the boat. which seemed to be as many

as the boat was able to passenger. I never knew

what my father did. I had never asked. It wasn't

that it was taboo, I think it was just that I'd rather

be ignorant than spoil this image that I held of him

with wonder. There were pictures from the boat of

the sky at sunset or at dawn. I couldn't tell the

difference. Another photograph was of three

private jets, each with different logos on them,

which stood infront of a tree filled hillside, with a

few buildings ascending up the side. This was all

news to me. My father used to go on alot of

business trips. often to America. I assumed that's

what this is. There were pictures of these same

men waiting in front of a yellow and black taxi cab,

one man had 'sinal divers' on his bag. There were

other pictures of them together in bars and casinos

and coffee bars and amusement parks and seafood

restuarants called 'the salty dog' where everyone

at the table seemed to be eating lobster. All the

photographs were mixed up. There were some

more from the boat, from the front, passing

another boat, as it was nearing the shores of

wherever. There were other pictures of suburban

ares, people with speedboats on their driveway. So

this musnt have been too far off shore. Then I

came to a picture of a helicopter. Then pictures

from the helicopter looking down on to the shores

of this whereever, with beaches that looked like

everyones typical paradise. Blue skies, white sand

with turquoise waters. There were pictures of them

at the beach. Black men. Not american black men.

more like Carribean black men. They were playing

kettle drums in a bar on the beach and chopping

coconuts. There was a picture of my father under a

tree, throwing his arms up to catch a falling

coconut, it looked like he was laughing. He was

next to a sign displaying 'Beware of falling

coconuts'. I recognised his white olympic tshirt. His

black shorts with the two yellow strips down one

side. His white socks. His white trainers. He always

wore white trainers. I put the photograph to one

side. There were a couple of pictures of a woman.

Maybe his new wife. I wasn't sure, but i didn't think

so. My guessing was merely a question of: From

mother to that? I flicked through more photographs.

There were many of the scenery. The landscapes.

mountains with backdrops that were nothing but

blue. The hotel room that let you know you were on

the beach. The balcony with deck chairs, a

parasol and plants with giant green leaves. and of

course, the ocean. It looked like he'd meant for

these pictures to be shared with somone. The

pictures were gorgeous. My mother had told me

that my father had always been a great

photographer. We had alot of his pictures he'd

taken, hanging on the walls in each room.

   The next group of photographs were of my sister

Lydia, sister Selena, my mother and myself. We

were all young in these pictures. And I

remembered all of it. The first thing that struck me

about my sisters was how long and wavy their hair

used to be. How they used to wear matching

jumpers, inverted swimsuits. They were the girls.

There weren't many pictures of myself though. Oh

wait, no. There was one of me drinking a Coke

outside Epcot centre in Florida. And one wearing a

Mickey Mouse hat outside Disneyworld in a

California. And one of me standing with Lydia

outside our house here in , with something wrapped

around my head, a black man united away shirt on

and my school trousers pulled up almost to my

nipples. I could just look at them and immediately

recall where it was. France. Scotland. Switzerland.

Cyrpus. Italy. Spain. The cars changed. We grew

older. The girls hair got shorter. My father ceased

to exist. There was one us stood next to the red

car. The vauxhall. I wasn't on it. I must have been

taking the picture. It was nice because it was the

only one in the pile with both my mother and my

father. I remembered his baigue jacket, with the

leather cuffs and collar. His brown jumper and how

he always used to wear it showing the collar of a

shirt underneath. His rings. I remember his rings.

and how they felt. They always seemed loose, but

he could never get them off. And his hair. He used

to have long hair. His eyes were small when his

cheeks rose as he smiled, the same way mine do.

Im getting his nose. Im watching my weight. I

flcked through more pictures. Birthdays. Christmas.

I remember that board game. those clothes. Those

smiles. There were pictures of Lydia going away to

some camping trip. She used to have that grunge

look. Black leather jacket, jeans, a grey tshirt, doc

martins. There was a picture of her when she must

have been only about nine or ten. She's on a beach

that dissappears into the sunlight behind her. The

sand is completely covered with markings from the

changing tides, looking like tire tracks all along the

shore. She's got pigtails, a green floral dress, she

walks bare foot holding a bucket of sand. Another

example of my father's brilliance with photography.

When Selena appeared in these photographs, she

was always smiling. I think my fathers exile

affected her more than the rest of us. She was the

middle child. She always felt second to Lydia. And

second to me. But it was never like that. She just

never knew where she was.

   The last picture I came to was of my mother,

myself, Lydia and Selena. All sat on the largest

sofa in the lounge. My mother dressed. Us in our

pyjamas. My father may have been taking the

picture. It may have just been on a timer. But it felt

appropriate for the final picture to be presented

with my fathers absence. It was the way it is now.

The way it was going to be.

--