It's Still Life

Somewhere near the equator, my youngest son is explaining to his daughter of nearly 6 years why she can’t have chocolate for breakfast, in much the same way that I explained to him when he was 6, why he couldn’t eat chocolate for breakfast, and much like my mum explained to me that eating chocolate for breakfast was the foolishness of children. Although I’ve since had chocolate for breakfast … often, and my son’s had chocolate for breakfast, and one day, his daughter will eat chocolate for breakfast because

adults are just big children who aren’t so easily told what to do.

Somewhere between 1st and 3rd grade, I asked my mum “Besides sugar, what’s in chocolate cake.” She ran off a list of things, which included a few eggs. And so I asked her, “What’s in toast?” She ran off a list of things that didn’t include eggs. And I said, “And eggs are good for me, right?” Mum wasn’t really paying attention. She was slapping oatmeal off her big metal spoon that she quite regularly threatened me with when she thought I was being the foolishness of children. “Mum, may have chocolate cake for breakfast? It has eggs in it, which are good for me, and toast doesn’t have eggs.

“Eat your oatmeal,” she said. I still refuse to eat oatmeal; it’s wallpaper paste.

Somewhere in my head is a unfortunate memory of Dad making me eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich, which refused to go down my throat, and when I suggested that I was feeling a bit sick he simply said, “Nonsense.” He was a man of few, but highly poignant words. I immediately threw up the small portion of sandwich I’d managed to swallow along with two tall glassfuls of Nestlé chocolate milk … all over the kitchen table that he handmade with the nautical map of Puget Sound stuck below a thick coat of yellowing resin.

If a child says they think they’re going to throw up, trust them. They’re going to throw up. And if it’s report card day, they’re guaranteed to throw up.

Somewhere around 9-ish this morning, I walked with my father along the Sussex coast from Birling Gap, up and over the headlands of Beachy Head, and then down into Eastbourne. Nearly 8 kilometers. It’s a considerable accomplishment for me. I walked like the postman he was. I do this every year to spend a few last hours with him when I was unable to be at his side when he passed away 17-years ago. It is a celebration and joyful day with a man who lived life to the full, and who has an adoring daughter who still holds him close. He is the jewel that shines on in my heart.

And I was with the best of company today.

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Reading time: 3 minutes. Photo taken with my iPhone is the approach to Eastbourne and the Victorian pier. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2023.