It was worth something to somebody, my childhood, and I was offered a lot of money for it. They let me keep certain things on the surface. The dogs, the funny shed with spare doors in it and the disco ball. They eventually built a supermarket on the site. I went inside once and walked the aisles. Certain important things had happened in the vicinity of the breads section. I stood at the deli counter and rang the bell. A young man in a stained apron now took the place of an unforgivable shame. I snuck into the staff room. A thin girl was sitting at a table alone struggling to eat a sandwich. I watched a bit of hopeless filling fall out. The security guard appeared and chased me from the store. It was easier to escape this way now than it had been in the past. The stairs were gone, for example. My father had been good on stairs, very nimble. His hurts and muscles a coordinated gang in one man. The security guard stopped on his stoop to shout, not bothering to chase me further than that. While my father had left nothing to chance, the guard knew that the world beyond, in this case, the car park, would soon sort me out.
It was worth something to somebody
1 August 2015