Unforgettable Lullaby

[naut]

Bump.

So I've decided recently to rewrite this story. This is what I've done so far --- yay or nay? Better, worse, neutral?

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Sunday Mass. Returning from it still in good spirits was his most troublesome concern of the day. So when his feet crossed that slate gray and moss ridden porch for the second time that morning there was perhaps that distinct slump in posture that overcomes everyone (triggering in the neck muscles, right down to the hips and then feet) that occurs when you are home, alone and in harmless privacy.

I feel odd --- yes I’m narrating to you, but, barging in on a man in his own home is poor manners and my mother would have a go at me for my rudeness. Not to mention, that if he were to know that we are watching him, well he wouldn’t be so relaxed and this story would surely be thwarted by the complete inconsistency of his actual behaviour and what I have only just said previously, that he is completely relaxed. So I do implore you, be quiet!

Actually, excuse me for a moment, an intermission to recount my memories --- they’re fuzzy when it comes to Sundays, a lifetime of hangovers doesn’t do the recollection much good.

Ah, so, passing in the comfort of his own home. An elegant home, with its mossy welcoming porch at the tip of a meandering garden path, making its happy trail between roses and surgically precise lawn. Peering down on this lawn, six windows, evenly spread to the pride of some nameless engineer or architect busy drawing or scrawling somewhere in this town. Two down, both wide and gazing like an astonished child’s eyes --- clean, but not to a critic’s standards. Four up, narrow yet practical. Like every other house in this town this house is old, and laid in even older stone and rock --- capped with slate and a chimney pot.