Peter Butler

Father's Day

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.

the robin
arrives
stays all day