I miss our morning chats by David Anstee

Portraits of women

She is my sister. We meet here every morning. Or we used to. She is older than me. She finished school early and got a job. Worked in a factory. I think they made washing machines, although we never had one – that I can remember. She gave me half her pay from the very first packet. That got me through university. She is retired now, moved into admin at the factory, but it closed down a while ago. Sign of the times I suppose. I think she quite enjoyed working there. It was social. They all ate lunch together, she had friends there. I started a little business after university. Nothing special or high technology or anything. We just helped people moving to the area get their kids into school, find a house, settle in. Started when I helped a friend, then he got me to help his friend, soon we were doing it full time. The problem with this disease is that you can’t see it. I think our biggest problems are the ones we can’t see. Where there is blood, bombers or barbarians, it galvanises us into shivering, indignant, frenzied action. We mobilise, we unite, we have a common and immediate enemy we can fight. This is a slippery, shadowy, intangible threat. It affects other people, not us. Like climate change. Like depression. Like loneliness. The things you can’t see can hurt you. Hurt you bad.

My little business kept growing. I got really busy. We had a whole team. It got so big, I was just working all the time. Then a client company made an offer. I did pretty well. I gave half to my sister. She is rich now.

I miss our morning chats.

 
Last modified onFriday, 21 May 2021 06:36
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