It is clear that your mother has been back again, with another bunch of cheap flowers and her roll of Sellotape. It is not the original lamppost. The council had quickly removed the remnants of that one. The replacement one is now mummified by your mother’s tape. Scarves and shirts have long gone. As have your fans. Blown away in the wind of time.
But your mum hasn’t forgotten.
Neither have I.
You, the famous footballer, who had often played at Wembley.
Me, a runner, who enjoyed the solitude of running alone.
For weeks after the crash, the newspapers were full of your story.
I received a brief mention in the local press: ‘Unlucky jogger, in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Your death seemed to allow forgiveness to the fact that you were a drunk driver.
Your fame softened your supporters’ minds.
I work my mouth and spit violently at the flowers.
‘Lest We Forget,’ I say out loudly, turn my Scoot-Mobile round and head back to my one bedroomed flat.
Originally published: Topically Challenged
