I used
to love ash; the way it majestically wound its way through the warm air at
home; how it seemed to shine as it left the coal burner; how it gently landed
on my hands, cracked and paled from a barren winter’s night.
It warmed
me through and made me laugh and stare at it, loving its gymnastic moves as it
slowly fell to the ground…but this ash is different.
Sometimes,
as I sweep, I wonder, deeply enveloped in my thoughts, if I can hear Mumma or
Pappa in the charred black heaps. I sweep this ash only because it is the
closest I will ever get to my parents again – they are one with the ash.
I don’t
love ash any more…
Great piece of writing. It really tells your story well and makes an image in your head.
ReplyDeleteA very moving piece of writing Joseph. Well done for reading it at the museum too, very powerful. (Miss Pimentel)
ReplyDeleteAn excellent piece of writing Joseph. (Mr Garratt)
ReplyDelete