On Tuesday, following geography and maths the child walks home; taking side streets and alleys past his grandfather's house. Remembered bitter words keeps the child at bay but still watching breathing out his mother's hostility against the fence. At first, the child is merely an old-man voyuer leaning against the old wooden fence peering through the half opened window. But before long, each Tuesday afternoon becomes ritual; the child's gaze on the old white house hoping to repeat glimpses of his grandfather. Waiting until the house becomes discoloured by shadows. The silence emanating from the window to the road speaks the old man's solitude in quiet tones never beckoned forth or let inside, yet the child remains; caring enough to stay and taking the silence with him, as he goes. The child walks the road pulling out the towers of grass which border the fence and clenching them, in his hand. Unbidden, the child's gaze drifts back to his grandfather's house And from inside his peeling white window the old man, belatedly, waves.
