The last time we saw each other

There’s a man who eases congestion on my morning train platform by pulling across one of those stretchy barriers when a train is about to leave, stopping the late coming rushers from charging at it. We smile at each other every day. I don’t know his name. I see some of my closest friends only once a year. I have second cousins I wouldn’t recognise in the street. I overheard a man reintroduce himself to someone yesterday. Adam, he said. Adam Jones. The last time we saw each other, my mother was alive.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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