Kim

I have always loved…

… my father. My mother says I was their miracle and that my birth restored my father’s joy, after everything he’d experienced during the war, so they named me Joyce.

Every Friday my father takes me to the pictures and buys me a toffee apple, just as he did when I was a little girl and I let him, despite being quite grown up now.

I hold myself back as he struggles up the steps with his bad leg. He has aged decades beyond his years but his pride remains fierce. We take our seats and I watch his solemn profile as the newsreel reflects in his eyes. The red glow of his pipe punctures the darkness when he inhales.

I notice he is twisting the fabric of his good coat in his other hand. Screwing it up so tightly, his knuckle bones shine through his scarred skin. I know the news fills him with dread, the events happening in a world beyond his control. He is scared for me. I place my hand on his, he turns towards me and smiles, the lines around his eyes softening. I am his Joy.