The wooden carving of a flower smiles down at me from the mantle above the crackling fire, watching me as I walk towards the chair.

I can see him now, sat in that soft leather chair, opposite the fire. It sags slightly beneath his thin frame, not from weight, but from time. 

His skeletal arms barely make an indentation, yet they’re firmly imprinted in my mind.

Those arms used to wrap around my waist and twirl me in the air, holding me tightly whilst I reached for the stars.

Glow-in-the-dark stars. 

That was the type which adorned the ceiling of the room, catching the light emitted by the fire.

 

He was like that, my granda; with stars on the ceiling and tapestries on the floor, he had created a palace for his little prince.

I’d spend hours tracing the intricate weave of the rag rug, my fingers traversing not just fabric, but time.

Each row contained fabric from a different family member’s clothes: great-aunt Edith’s worn flannel shirt, uncle Joey’s old army jacket…

Every time something wore out, it was woven into the rug; a family timeline.

 

Every aspect of that room contained history, even the chipped tea-set which was proudly displayed on the dresser (reclaimed from a neighbour’s skip). 

It had been found under the floorboards, tucked away since before the war.

But the room was practical too, with every necessity within touching distance from the armchair.

A rickety nest of tables held flasks of water and milk, tea bags and biscuits in bowls to their left, with crosswords, TV remotes, a brick phone and pens on the subsequent levels of the nest.

With each look, you could discover more useful additions.

 

Now though, when I open my eyes all that remains is that flower on the mantle.

The fire is gas now. A great, ugly metal cage of controlled flame.

The armchair is no more. I have to be careful not to trip on the wires which power the new one, enabling it to tip up, ejecting the occupant.

Only it’s not occupied.

 

I bite my lip, abating the tears threatening to spill, and look to the ceiling for distraction.

It needs painting. The silhouettes of the long-gone glow stars stand out against the sun-bleached areas like ghosts.

My Aladdin's rug has gone from beneath my feet too, after being labelled a ‘trip-hazard’ years ago. I think a part of my granda went with it too.

 

Carpeted in soft cream, the wooden floor is shielded from view. It’s not very cream anymore though; it’s stained with tea as numerous cups were knocked from the nest of tables which have found their way into the skip outside, alongside the dresser. Keeping them company are the remnants of the tea set.

They’ll all be gone tomorrow, skip included. 

Gone, 

just like him.