Bedtime Stories for a Grieving Child no. 4: Royal Holloway on Fiction
His wrinkles were gone. His crows’ feet only just starting to set in, the laugh lines around his mouth less pronounced than what I was used to. He wore his starched white business shirt, sweat faintly dripping down his brow, his hair just starting to recede. There he stood in his stiff work clothes, a handkerchief just peeping out of his pocket.
“Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Dad said, a hint of playfulness creeping into his voice. I smelt the cigarettes off his breath. There was pandan in the air somewhere. I tasted the ash in my mouth.
He accompanied me all the way to the hospital, making small comments about the old photos that I found in his old apartment, even after he separated from Mom. He kept the different rings that they wore during their marriage, tucked ...