It must be love
I went to see my dad last week. He was nested in like a tiny bird, surrounded by pillows. He has become like a baby chick, fed intermittently, drowsing most of the time. He sings nearly constantly, drifting. Sometimes, when I sing to him, you can catch snippets coming back in quiet, meandering lines. Although at other times he sounds more like a lawn mower. He was a nightmare, my dad. He didn't like us having opinions that were different to his. He would go catatonic when he didn't like what a cashier, or a waiter or a generally helpful person said. He'd drill us on fractions and decimals on the school run; he thought that a fun day was walking up and down a hill in the rain. He didn't talk about love. He did talk about how we had to hoover the-hall-stairs-and-landing, and get up earlier, and how we were lazy. He was also a wonder. He made the entire cast of Morph out of plasticine and did tricks where they'd appear through the bottom of his desk. He completely ste...