This Future Was Always Coming Sometime

You will go for long walks leaving your son’s small face in the crevice of the front door.

You will see a balding man sound asleep in the passenger seat of a parked car. That’s how he’ll look when he’s dead, you’ll think before he jerks upright.

You will see a man on a mobility scooter crest a speed bump and carry on, whizzing along the centre of the road.

You will see a man clutching a walking cane as he scatters breadcrumbs for the ducks. The sun will go. The wind will stir the trees. The grass will be bursting with white clover.

You will hear, ‘It’s not your fault.’ You’ll squeeze the hand holding yours while secretly shredding the inside of your cheek.

You will make To-Do lists with words like,

Lung bank

Executorship

Another will?

Urn

And stay up until the dawn chorus peeps through your open window.

You will drink soup.

You will see a photo of him from the years before you were born, all white-toothed grin and beautiful eyes beneath a dead straight fringe.

You will smile when people say how much your son looks like him.

You will see men with silver hair,

men with silver hair,

men with silver hair.

And each time you will have to remind yourself that it’s not unfair they should still be alive.

You will replace your home screen wallpaper with his smiling image. Each time your phone comes to life, you’ll be jolted into the past where hugging him still exists.

You will hold your son close in the top bunk. Mummy and daddy won’t die for a very long time, you’ll say to soothe his tears. You will marvel at his peaceful breathing, knowing that you can only know one thing about the future for sure.