Humming My Own Tune

The end of the beginning. This is how I remember my dad leaving home when I was a teenager.

The orange and red nasturtiums outside the front door – bold, prolific, welcoming – tumble out of pots and onto the path. Their cheerful brightness belies what’s going on inside this house.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, I wonder where everyone else has gone – Grandad must be around somewhere. I want to be with him, but if I go, the door might slam shut, and that won’t be helpful.

Beyond the frosted, etched window glass is the garden. He has always kept it beautiful and full of life, but now all I see are tangled stems and brittle leaves.

I hold the front door open as he walks past with the hi-fi in his arms; no eye contact, no expression.

I thought it was our hi-fi. He’d shown me how to use it. I have my own CDs.

We don’t speak – I ask no questions nor beg him to stay. There he is, inches away, though it may as well be miles, traipsing back and forth carrying boxes and binbags to the car. Mangled, crushed flowers lead the way.

He is gearing up to go, but I don’t think he’ll dare. That is, until the registration number, forever burnt into my broken heart, disappears behind trees and down the lane. I run, panicked, across the garden, but there are only tyre tracks in the dust.

Dad has left us with no music. I will learn to hum my own tune.