Sport 8: Autumn 1992
My mother is in hospital for tests. Although it is not expected that the tests will reveal anything useful. Later, I will be allowed to visit her.
I stand in the middle of the living-room. It does not seem to have changed much. Although I notice that some of the books have gone; there are bare patches on the shelves. My father, coming through from the kitchen, notices the direction of my gaze. 'They keep disappearing,' he says. 'We try to fill the empty spaces, but . . .' His voice trails into silence, as if gravity itself were standing in the room with us and draining his sentences of their words, swirling them, like water, down an invisible plughole. My father coughs nervously. Abruptly, he thrusts a cup of tea into my hands.