A sequence in Ottava Rima by Stuart Estell

A sequence in Ottava Rima

I. On Clearing the Loft

The treasure’s down. The loft is empty now and boxes occupy the lounge and hall. I rifle through the books and marvel how these mildewed pulpy fortresses were small and ineffective in defence. I know the reasons why I kept them, kept them all, but none of them has seen the light of day in years. It’s time to send them on their way.

But still there has to be a treasure box: home-made soft toys leak stuffing from their guts; the thirty-year-old darkened paradox of love and distance, child and adult, cuts to the quick. And then the medals. And the shock of seeing again the trace of sea-salt rust. The documents. A man I never knew is real again; these should be kept on view.

II. Going out to see the world

“Too old for that,” though only ten. I tried To find the words to counter. Nothing came. And so my first LPs dispersed, denied to me, their crackly songs and dusty games now somehow sadder. Yet I never cried. Disinterested cousins made their claims by proxy, justified by youth, and these my plastic sanctuaries were shelved, deceased.

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One relic still remains. A BBC collection: 70s TV themes and songs. The final item’s ruined cruelly “We’re going out to see the world” belongs to the past alone, grooves scratched in fury, unplayable and lost. And though I longed to heed the call to set off and explore, I couldn’t do it, but bought more and more.

III. Selling the treasure

The van unpacked at six, we watch the sky, as grey as all the gathering undead who come to buy some junk for nothing. Dry old men in flat caps shuffle through the spread of books, find nothing, then amble away as silent as the drizzle. Underfed and overfed alike blurt numbers out, no haggles. Final offers. All throughout,

the urge to kindle all-consuming flame, to torch the memories that are on sale, the music that I’ll never hear again, is something I resist. And as I deal out bargains by the handful, all the shame of loss is here on show for quick resale. At midday we reload what's left unsold to give away to charities untold.

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IV. Peg

The books are going to do some good, for sure, delivered to the hospice shop. My aunt, who was actually a cousin, died there at the age of ninety. Old, frail and tired, she’d had enough. I visited to share some pointless news, her customary rants of garden Halal slaughter now replaced by a serenity of sorts. Her finger traced

the outlines of the flowers I’d snapped and then brought out for us to talk about, the first few times. And later on, the oxygen would bubble as she slept. I’d leave the nurse a note to give to her, and hope that when I came again she’d be awake. But just that peaceful sleep remained; she died with such great dignity. The hospice did so much

to keep her comfortable, and all that’s left for me to do, while shedding all this stuff I thought protected me from death, this stuff I couldn’t part with, all the fluff of life picked from its navel, is a deep breath (of what? Of recognition that enough of life has passed in self-distraction now?). I sign the Gift Aid forms, unload, and go.

Stuart Estell

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