In my kitchen there’s a handsome table scuffed and cracked, fag burns, coffee smudges, a few crumbs I haven’t wiped away. I wish Grandma was sitting there with her diamond eyes, handing me mashed potatoes, telling me to eat properly. I wish Granddad was there with his crinkling newspaper and all his stories even the ones he told a hundred times. I wish Dad was there to tell me what to do when I fuck things up and I do. I wish Mum was there, you know, just to be there. Just sitting.