Man, I hate that thing. It’s been up on that wall ever since I can remember. When I think back to the days we’d come round after school, and she’d sit us down on the couch while she’d fetch the teacakes, it makes me shudder.
Being in the presence of it meant only one thing. She was drinking again. She’d be on a three-day bender or something and Dad’d bring us round here. ‘Sleepover at Nanna’s!’ he’d enthuse. On a Tuesday? Yeah, good one, Dad. I think he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. Still, points for effort.
Look at it though, sat there all ceramic and judgemental. Its cold gaze takes in everything, follows you round the room like one of those freaky paintings. You can’t escape. Even if you did, you’d still have to come back.
So here we find ourselves, some 14 years later. Same couch, same living room, same… it. Same grandkids, same confusion.
I wonder who’s going to get it. I hope to Hell that we don’t cop for it. She knows I’d only break the thing.