She might one day have caught a glimpse, through
glaucoma, of her great-grandson darting behind the blur of a bush, hiding from
her as instructed by her daughter, leaving her alone ‘so she eats her lunch’,
she would imagine the family
agreeing, down the steep stairs she never now attempted to descend.
She might have one day found herself pausing in
the Portslade foot tunnel to admire the anti-war graffiti – the next war that
is, or the one after that. Or beyond.
(Footnotes from Words Out of Time; see here.)
