Joshua Seigal

So you got up and fed the cat. That’s something. You hauled one leg, then the other, out of your pyjama bottoms, and you fought doggedly across the rugged terrain of the landing. You wielded your toothbrush like a club. You stood under the shower’s strafe for as long as it took to deter the enemies under your skin, if just for a while. You got yourself dressed: trousers, T-shirt, socks – the kit. You sat for a bit then went to the shops for milk and fruit, whatever your tired gut could take. You wrote. That’s something. Even read a bit too. You talked with your wife – only half hearing through the hounding static, but you talked nonetheless. You watched some show about the Vikings. That’s something. That’s something. And when the day was done you dropped heavily into bed, your mind bulging with a thousand tiny battles, a thousand mini victories.

She told me to sign the form but the name just wouldn’t come out. From the tip of my pen my own name simply refused to be written. I kept wondering what the hell was wrong with me, asked for more paper, tried again and again, but the letters wouldn’t form the correct structure. I wrote JOHN instead of JOSHUA. John is my dad’s name. My dad’s. Not mine. She gave me new paper. Said I still had time.

have all been written down, but still she has trouble working the TV. She calls me up to say the device has turned itself off again, and could I come over and turn it back on? Just look at the notes Nana, I say. I wrote the instructions down for you. It’s a similar story with the microwave, with its buttons seemingly designed to perplex her. The internet is a true enigma. I just don’t know how to manage, now that he’s gone. The place is just so big, so empty. And the bills, she says. Michael used to sort the bills – now I don’t know what to do. I try to assure her that all is OK, all is in order, the electricity won’t run out, the hot water won’t suddenly go cold. She hunches into herself. Tired now. Old. She reuses a tea bag to make a weak tea.