Death Storage.
The subtlety with
which my dad dropped the A-word into conversation yesterday was astounding.
We were both
staring into my airing cupboard, when he tapped the piece of material screwed
to the back of the door and said, “That’s probably asbestos”. If my life were a
film, it would have cut to one of those shots where the person stays in the
centre of frame while the background zooms out behind them. If my face was animated by Terry Gilliam, my bottom jaw would have disengaged completely. My
cupboard was giving me cancer.
All my
closet-related memories flashed by me in an instant: the countless times I’d
hung towels up in there to dry, then innocently rubbed them into my face
the following morning. I didn’t know they were contaminated. I hadn’t an
inkling.
It wasn’t just my
towels. Every item of clothing and bed sheet in my house has rested against the
back of that door at some point. I may as well have broken into a factory built
in the 1950s, dislodged some lagging from the roof and rolled myself up in it.
My dad assured me
there was nothing to worry about. I wasn’t convinced. Henceforth, my hallway cupboard
is a no-go zone. I’m also going to have myself fumigated. With it comes to
health, you can’t be too careful.