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.