I‘m trying to think up words for the journey I’m on. I’m trying not to erase every word I have written crushed between strangers on a train. Above ground it‘s cloudy. In here it stinks.
A few days on I’m on my way to see him off. We stand at the bus stop overlooking the cemetery. My mum is buried here, I say, trying not to think of her unmarked grave. I don’t like cemeteries, he says, I don’t believe in religion.
Between the tombstone a gnarled fallen tree. To me it looks like a man desperately trying to shed his skin.