‘Papers’ by Roy McFarlane

Papers The day I was called into my mother’s bedroom the smell of cornmeal porridge still coloured the air, windowsills full of plants bloomed and dresses half-done hung from wardrobe doors and her Singer sewing machine came to rest like a mail train arriving at its final destination, foot off the pedal, radio turned down, she beckoned, touched me with those loving hands. Shrouded in … Continue reading ‘Papers’ by Roy McFarlane