Instalment One Hundred and Forty Five

When I grew up, and it does seem so long ago, everything had a big label on it. It was simple, easy and clear. Most importantly, I believed it.

PERMANENT

Big letters on top of buildings – Permanent. The happy family who lived next door – Permanent. My happy family – Permanent.

I never questioned it, didn’t ask even once, so I can’t say for sure if anyone else even saw these labels. I assumed if it said Permanent to me, it did to those around me too.

So it came as a shock when those labels started to yellow and weather. Passing a building that ‘had always been there’ when the big Permanent capital P crumbled from the façade and landed at my feet. When the family next door got divorced.

I grew unsure and started to examine my family and the labels on them. They still said Permanent but the heat of my fear had the labels peeling at their edges. The glue was brittle, and I toyed at it’s edges, like a tongue that can’t leave a bitten cheek alone. I tore at the label on my father and it came away in my hand.

It had only been temporary.