Floorboards
Papa lived there before he died. He lived there before it was torn down and replaced by a big square of bricks that could never be torn down, never torn apart.
Inside, the house was perpetually dark; not black, just dim. He lit the rooms with candles. In what I suppose now was the lounge room, Papa spent most of his days feeding the fire.
Papa wasn’t a rich man, though he had a good eye and a taste for literature, art and antiques. He hoarded a trove of leather-bound books, oil paintings and beautiful pieces of furniture, which to me at the time, were uncomfortable.
One by one, he took an axe to them, to feed his fire, even in the throes of summer, when there was nothing left to fuel the flames. Papa tore up the floorboards with a crowbar, to keep his fire alive.
When they put him into the hospital, I hid beneath my parents bed. Counted to one-thousand, I brushed up against a parcel of linen. Inside was a crowbar, his wedding photo and war medals, splayed out on new, blond floorboards.
