Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Christmas With Uncle Cynthia

It was Christmas when I left, it was too hot.

Down on the beach, on the rocks, is where we found each other.

Uncle Cynthia. Long, hollow neck splintered at the end. Head distorted in a scream, three different faces, five twisting mouths, teeth. Eyes staring out, tormented and dead, but I could kiss you, Uncle Cynthia. I want to run my hands through your stubbly, wiry hair.

We went for a walk. I carried you by my side.

I thought I'd take a picture, maybe even film it, but you told me not to. A father, you said, who watches the entirety of his child's nativity through a camera. I'm sorry.

We headed into the dunes. You found a bucket by the roadside. I asked you what was inside. Treasure. I looked inside, a single golden coin. Treasure. Would I lie to you?

A single child's glove on a bench. Shapes on the beach looked like people struggling in the tide. We passed people walking their dogs, but they didn't see us.

The light was fading by the time we reached the power station. A solid block of a building, no doors, no windows, nothing. The dunes piled up around it so you can easily get on the roof. Amongst the graffiti we danced for the first time.

For a moment we were one. I replaced my head with yours and waved my hands before your eyes so that you could see me.

I love you, Uncle Cynthia.

We watched the sun set behind the distant black clouds over the grey and murky sea. We saw a lone figure standing on a dune in the distance, staring. We waved, but he didn't wave back.
He looked sad.

I'm not sad any more.

I love you, Uncle Cynthia.

You complete me, Uncle Cynthia.


  1. I absolutely love this. But I am really frightened of you now.

  2. I was already frightened of him.

  3. where are u from..... from were these good pictures taken?

  4. Oh no, the pictures need to be uploaded again!

    The pictures were taken along the coastal paths of Crosby, Merseyside, UK, on Xmas Day of 200...9? I think it was 2009.