The masterpiece it had taken him a lifetime to write was lying forgotten in the bottom of a drawer.
“Books you say,” he tapped the half empty bottle beside him. “They are more addictive than the booze. I would'na drink if I could write. My life has been a library of little hurts.”
He got up off the steps and staggered towards the park. He did not say goodbye. Later, I found him asleep on a bench, the familiar hand holding a battered old paperback he'd found in some bin.
That was the last time I ever saw my father.
Author bio: David Ford has published short stories and reviews in magazines. A collection of poems has been published by the Happenstance Press. He lives in London.
Biography is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
