William

The kitchen cupboard door closes unevenly upon a hinge that is slowly losing its grip on its frame and a jangle of glasses rings out, muffled against the cheap particle board door.  The small space is occupied by one too many vessels; the generic set of four large yellow-spotted water glasses, two tall blue ones, one with golf club insignia purchased for fifty cents from the eco depot and the one with a super hero.  Spiderman looks right at him, webs shooting out from his fingertips as he swings among grey skyscrapers.  The impressive red of Spidey’s suit has now faded to a patchy pink and the integrity of his webbing looks compromised as it has become worn by little fingers gripping it from both sides and the one which now holds it. 

The glass, filled with milk, would sit alongside the marmite toast that would go cold and left partly eaten on the Dora plate.  Many times it fell over and the only reminders of this now are a chip on the rim and a little white stain on the threadbare brown carpet.  Instead of being filled from the bottle in the fridge now, the glass feels almost corrupted as the whisky splashes into the glass up to the level of Spiderman’s right heel and topped up with a splash of water.  On a bad night Spiderman’s knee gets a dunk; water often optional.

In the time it takes to boil a jug or to fill a glass with the dark amber fluid and let it slide down was all it took for him to vanish. Playing outside in his favourite superhero-of-the-moment costume, it was as if the delicate vines that entwined the tall trees had radiated out from his own fingertips and carried him away.

Andrew Hawkey