The Sunday Roast by Harry L Smith

As I scraped my face, this morning, with a disposable razor. I made one long stroke too many. For perhaps the six thousands time, in my long life; I cut my chin. As my blood dripped down into the wash basin, I thought of yesterday’s lunch, roast turkey, with all the trimmings. I started to wonder how many, Sunday dinners had I supped on during my long life?  

As a boy, these end of week feasts celebrations of plenty were a rare event . But when it did happen, it caused great joy for my parents and us children. I can remember, my father’s precision at sharpening the carving blades as if he were part whirling dervish. Later on, when I was head of the table, I would imitate my father’s art . And now old and shuffled down to the sides of a smaller table, for yesterday’s Sunday Roast, I noticed more the dead who were absent, then those alive around me, who absent-mindedly attended to their mastication.

So on this left over Monday, I will have my tea with the long departed spirits of my youth and between bites of my sandwich, I shall think fondly of  my dad, who seldom had the chance to carve a roast, because he was out work and we were living doss- house- rough in Bradford.

1923 Lies & Testaments

Harry will be a regular contributor on The Unofficial 'Brit Writers and Writers Everywhere' blog