The very best memory; the oldest one.  Still tasting of children and ringing with laughter and so vivid and so torturous, and so precious. 

The door was glazed; 70's opaque, with sliding panels and my grubby hand marks down one side.  I remember this detail as an introdution - such peculiar details.

There were friends there; so I must, once, have been surrounded and sought after.  Pink and white and fresh and soiled and sticky and blind with it all; a gaggle of girls

Dad was blind-folded, arms outstretched, grin on face, groaning; fake stumbling, clambering and gleeful childhood carelessness as we squeeled, and tripped and feigned quiet, and silence and stillness.  Here he was, my world - and there we ran, from fireplace to stairfoot to sink, to table; tripping over backward skipping feet, reaching out to brush open air and get-away.

But I wanted to be caught - scooped up, so that when he found me, the chosen one; the one claimed through eyes covered in cloth, he would lift me, trapped like a fish in a net and he would feel my weight - dense with pride, and love; my Dad.

That's what I remember, and always will, I hope. 

My net is tighter now, and the corpse cold - I know because I just kissed him, feeling scared and angry and alive (just like then) but now he has gone and I don't know what to do.  The glass door is closing and he is on the other side, and I want him to find me, and I want him to catch me and I am waiting quietly, in silence and stillness - but I know he can't choose me, and those other girls are ushered off stage and here I am; as the sirens fade, here I am. Alone.

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