Seated at a table for one in the exam, writing lyrics instead of history, wondering how to go about my life, I tipped on two legs, fell backwards, and lay in the ruins of a perfectly good chair.
It opened my eyes. I knew what I didn’t want to do.
Stephen Goodlad wrote this story.
You stood small, despite borrowed heels, all grown up in a too-long evening gown that showed off your delicate collarbone. When you tripped and fell, it broke cleanly, requiring two pins to repair.
I kissed the line of stitches as you lay in bed, and you only cried out once.
Stephen is a retired Social Worker using writing as an antidote to lockdown.
It was only beach cricket. I bowled and he batted. The ball lingered an eternity in the patch of blue sky before plummeting towards earth. I was standing with outstretched arms when the full force of our relationship hit me in the mouth. “You’re no son of mine,” he said.
Stephen Goodlad started writing during the first lockdown in England having retired from work only a few months before, full of different ambitions. Writing has helped shape new ambitions and new challenges ahead.