Dad

When he removes his glasses the vulnerability of his face startles me. The skin on his arms hangs pale and loose, yet scarred and bruised like that of a younger man. His hands, the whorls of his fingerprints are stained with watercolours. He shuffles as he walks, in socks an old t-shirt with holes, ‘slacks’,…

A bit about me

I come from a line of Nappers. A Nap is my dad supine on the white couch upstairs, his fingers interlocked, his hands resting midway between his chest and his stomach. His eyes closed behind his glasses, his mouth not-quite-closed and threatening with each deepening breath to release a grumbling snore. ABC classic FM underscores…