BARRY’S LONG WALK.

I'm a miserable old sod, aren't' I?

It had been a painless passing.

Somehow Barry had expected it to hurt when his heart beat itself to a standstill, but it didn’t, yet he knew he must be dead. He’d been aware of it coming on for some time, minutes, at least, though it could have been hours.

It had started with a heart-warming retrospective journey through the past. He’d never have remembered it, that struggle through warmth and moisture until he exploded into the world. That was seventy eight years ago, but he had somehow merged into the way he had felt so long ago, back then, the forgotten way.

Sucking the breast, the delicious milk and then the less delicious bottle, and onwards, to school, the threat of being beaten by the sadistic history teacher, and the fear of being beaten again asleep at night. The love he felt for Geoff in crowded playgrounds, and so far as he could re-experience the sacred moments it had been an honest love.

Walking down the years, kissing Jane at the bottom of her garden after dad had been buried in the churchyard, and Jane telling hin it would be alright, he’d be better off with out a dad, because wasn’t she?

And still gently strolling down the beach, across the damp sand with Danielle, holding her hand, squeezing her fingers and, yes telling her that if she wasn’t careful he might fall in love with her, and what a truth that might have been though he supposed he never had loved her unless the best love of his life was that first moist sand love with the gulls circling overhead and the fish and chips scent in the salty air, and then out of sight and peeing, but making sure Danielle could see…

But each day was a moment and here he was at the altar, not believing in any darned god, not him, but Annette had. Lovely, beautiful generous of breast, Annette, one moment in front of the man of God and the next the divorce court magistrate as she strolled off with best friend Geoff who forgot all those promises they swore so solemnly when they were five…

And then a new love, warmer and brighter yet somehow dimmer, kissing and cuddling and producing babies, three of them… One day they’d learn what it’s like to grow old, to walk down this path of the years, from the start to…

...To the finish. So far to go, but painless.

But first the sweet wee grandchildren, dancing round a Maypole, laughing with summer and weeping with autumn, and then excited at Christmas…

Voices echoing a sorrowful mourning at his passing, standing by the simple cheap wooden box, the comfortable box, cool in the Earth, with no more wretched years to tread.

And no more story.

Nothing to show that Barry had ever lived. No shadow on the day, but no pain either. No beating heart, no thinking, no waste of time.

Just the long slow decay of flesh in death, putrification without pain, here lies Barry who hardly ever lived.

© Peter Rogerson 09.06.22

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