Jemima Kiss


Obsessive preoccupation:

This time yesterday.
This time last month.
This time last year.
This time last year:
Last meal we had – thought I might lean my head against your shoulder and say you were lovely, but held back.
Last walk we had – you disappeared around the cliff, never content, always curious, explaining colour theory to me, said you’d had a strange pain in your foot for days.
Last lift to the station – the same see you soons, but the last, ordinary moments now the last ones.
Last phone call – missed it, probably online as usual, didn’t hear my phone ring.

Always an anniversary of something. Those words you left us with about your mother: “I don’t know how we are supposed to come to terms with the stunning finality of death”.

But you had warning though, didn’t you Dad?

Listening to: Hunter by Björk, from Family Tree

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