When I eat carrot soup at night with mom in a cold kitchen, I’m eating an entrée in a small restaurant in Covent Garden.
When I pour water from the clay tank into a glass, I’m pouring water into a cup in my tower block flat that overlooked Victoria Park in the Eastend.
When I lie in bed watching Twin Peaks on my laptop, I’m on the narrowboat’s bed, with the side hatch open onto the Regent’s Canal.
When I turn off the lights and stare at the ceiling, I’m listening to revelers from a nearby pub head home late.
Poetic and I know you are caring for your mother. What a son you are! Today was my son's birthday. He died in 2017 at 46. Nothing more need be said.