The night is huge and structureless. But it is punctuated by our hearts. It's mid-afternoon, the weather is good, father rolls up his shirt sleeves. A dog barks outside, the elm trees rustle, the tap in the bathroom drips. I can hear banging as my brother mucks around in the workshop in the garden. Mama is downstairs running the shop, or rather waiting for the first customer of the afternoon. The house smells of cleaning, of fried food. There's a certain aroma of earth, tomatoes, potatoes sitting on straw, of absence. Leaning against the kitchen sink, taking a rest from the day, from work, from illness, from life, which in recent years has steadily become a farce, my father contemplates a cloud. He smiles beneath his ginger moustache. I miss you.