Bad News

I got a phone call this morning at 4.30am. Not good news from the old country, my Mum is sick. After spending half an hour on the phone I returned to bed to find the Rubbermaid sitting up looking at me.

‘Is everything Ok?’ he asked.

I told him briefly the problem, leaving out all the details my Dad saw fit to tell me.

He patted the bed and told me to lie down, he then laid really close, leg touching leg, arm touching arm, shoulder to shoulder, took my hand in his, fingers interlocked and squeezed it tight. We lay there, looking up at the ceiling, holding hands in silence. He drifted back to sleep while I continued to stare at the ceiling. His soft snore was strangely comforting, as was the vice like grip that didn’t relax until his alarm went off at 6.30.

We had breakfast at my local café where we talked about inconsequential things for nearly an hour before he got his first job for the day. Before he left he embraced me in a bear hug and kissing me softly on the cheek and said goodbye.

I jumped on the bus and cried all the way to work.