by Mary Edward
ICATCH my breath as I step inside. The front door dangles on one hinge, like a bird with a broken wing, and rubble crunches underfoot as I move further into the house. It is a wreck; what has not been devastated by absence has been the victim of the cruel winds from the Atlantic. There is a sour smell of neglect.
The piano is still here. In the same spot it has occupied for an unthinkable number of years. I want to laugh, but it would be a kind of sacrilege. This foolish, upright piano standing here yet, coated with filth and barely recognisable as a musical instrument. A lasting monument to this sad family. I try the lid but I’m not surprised to find it locked. It was always locked. I wipe my fingers on a tissue.
The crunch of my boots alarms me until I realise I am breaking the silence. Such a long, long silence. Out in the open curlews call and the gulls emit their pain-filled cries. I wonder if my presence disturbs them. After all, here they have it all to themselves. Because this is where the world ends.
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About iScot Magazine
iScot August 2017 Edition
The one with Three Powerful Politicians who happen to be women and David Mundell.
116 jam packed pages of the best craic in Scotland from the only truly independent pro Scottish magazine, and if you chose not to buy this we're coming round to your house with big Sylvester and the lads - you've been warned!