DANCE AROUND THE RESERVOIR AND DOWN
GRAHAM TUGWELL
“Here,” says Granddad, tapping the pallid slackness of belly with two broad fingertips, “In here.” I look at his exposed stomach, wrinkled pale with sagging age. Tap. Tap. “That’s where it starts. I feel it growing.” I follow his fingers, tracing slow patterns on soap-coloured skin. “And when the end comes . . . It’ll come fast . . .” Bending with bared teeth, he tucks his shirt inside his waistband. “Will it hurt, Granddad?” He places a hand on my shoulder. His eyes are dark and very soft. “Aye, it will. Every day the pain will get worse. Will come more often, will last longer.”
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