The house where I grew up was an embarrassment. Then. Funny how death changes our perception of things. Our living room was my mum’s temple. It was the room where she displayed victory over poverty. The mantel was crammed with her trophies. A leather donkey with a striped blanket on its back. Castanets from Benidorm. A recipe for paella in a gaudy gilt frame.
I hated that room with its climbing ivy wallpaper. The squiggly orange carpet. The poster with fairy lights blinking on and off. It was a sunset shot of a Caribbean island, complete with china ducks in flight.
Dad didnt mind sitting in a curiosity shop. He didnt mind the sideboard stuffed with junk. Didnt mind the plastic matador with a willy, that pee’d when you pressed its head.
Mum would giggle like a schoolgirl. ‘Got that in Torremolinos,‘ she’d say with pride.
I’d give anything to watch the sun go down with her on that Caribbean island. I can hear her voice.
‘Cocktail, dear?’ It’s got a bit of pineapple floating on top. She’s wearing a straw hat with cherries on the fringe.
Oh, what I wouldnt give to go back to that living room.
– Exactly, but exactly, as it was.
jaylengrace 