In memory of Anthony, who died five years ago today.

Looking back

by

Edana Minghella

I said, we’ll both be in our bathchairs on the beach.

–   Do you think?

Yes. You’ll be really old and I’ll be sprightly.

But we’ll both be in bathchairs, wrapped in blankets,

on Brighton beach. Or Ryde. A beach somewhere.

Looking out to sea.

–   Do you think I’ve done all right?

(You meant the house

I think.)

I said, of course, it’s beautiful.

We’ll talk about gran. And mum and dad. And the shop.

I’ll say, what about the Aunts?

The time the priest came to see Auntie Jeanie in hospital and offered us holy communion?

Our panicked eyes, our open mouths.

I’ll say, remember the rock festival?

The topless girls wanting ninety-nines.

Your face averted, your hands shaking

When you put in the flake.

You at fourteen,

Smelling of chocolate and vanilla.

I’ll say, remember that film you made?

The sixth. Or will it be the seventh?

The one with Thing in. And that woman whose

Face doesn’t move.

–   Who?  Her face does move!

Whatshername.

I said, I’ll get confused, looking back,

And so will you.

We’ll both be a bit dotty.

Dottier. Chockful of dots.

And grumpy probably. Grumbling

in our bathchairs on Appley beach.

Or Puckpool.

–   Do you think?

Yes.

–   I hope you’re right.

Your garden; a freezing March Monday.

Huddled in your coat, the outside damp, mushroomy,

leaves scrunching underfoot –

like autumn –

The last time I saw you.