My little boy and I are sitting inside a car on an expanse of tarmac. The tarmac is derelict, cracked, with plants pushing through it. The car is parked underneath a large oak tree. Time is passing. Debris drops from the tree onto the car: galls, leaves, acorn shells, discarded chrysalids, aphids’ honeydew, birdshit, bits of twig, dead beetles. Gradually, the car is getting buried and decomposing with us inside it. Spiders are making webs over the car and moss is growing up the door frames.
We observe the layers thickening on the windscreen and the daylight becoming muted. I am happy; Felix is in my arms. I am reminded of the profoundly pleasurable occasions when as a child I would sit in my mother’s car when it went through the carwash, or the times when I drowsed in my child seat in the back, being driven home in a rainstorm.