With age you become invisible, he decides, pouring a drink with
his better hand, staring at her picture. When she was around she'd
remind the kids, jog memories. Remember next Sunday. No longer.
His own memory isn't brilliant but he tries reaching back to the last
card, telephone call. Still, their pictures at varying ages furnish the
wall and top the piano he no longer plays.
He switches on the radio, a Bach sonata, closes his eyes, waits for
the Carer. On time as usual, she slots in her key, having retrieved
from beside the front door a package, with its forest of stamps.
stays all day