His habit on the permitted daily walk was to scan the evening arc of the bay. Today was no different. From the three islands off the rocky headland, the gorse swathed cliffs, the conurbation of Mumbles seafront, alongside the dotted houses at West Cross and the lone pub outlined stark in its whiteness, Gareth panned the curve of the prom, so intent on the visual feast, that the preceding click in his cerebral cortex only vaguely registered. With a whirring like interconnecting cogs, the malfunction embedded. Then came the shock of a shadowy presence occupying his own footsteps recently vacated. Gareth spun around…..and round and round again…. like a tail-chasing dog yet the shadowy outline remained out-of-focus fringing his peripheral vision. The tide was on the turn; the imprints were momentary,-quickly filled and obliterated. Like the “ghost,” no trace.
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The Gift of Tears
In the ongoing dialogue between the Me that I am today and versions of my earlier self, one outstanding feeling is of embarrassment. How could I have worn that dress, for goodness sake? Why on earth would I say that? Did anyone hear me, or worse, remember it? Does anyone have a photo of that disaster of a night out and which is going to appear on social media at any moment? Yet I sympathise, empathise, with these junior versions. They have melded into who I am.
Sometimes you read letters, or articles made to read like letters, from people giving advice to their younger self. Great advice. Sensible. It’s always to a person of fixed age, usually just starting out on independent living. The tone is kind, wise and reassuring. I can’t do that. I’ve been embarrassing myself since I was born, so Previous Versions skip between ages, each with its capacity to compromise dignity. Anyway, I wouldn’t have listened to good advice (thereby avoiding social calamity) at any age. Social calamity seems to be my default.
Continue readingNina’s Gift
“You okay?” Nathaniel asked. His father looked up from his hunched posture.
“I was just thinking about her,” he said. “Bubbe Nina was a forceful woman.”
“Stronger than most,” Nathaniel agreed. “Didn’t she walk from France to Spain?”
“Yes, in nineteen forty-one, just after the Rafle du Vel’ d’Hiv’,” Lionel said. “She feared it would spread to the south.”
A loud rap came from the front door and they jumped to their feet. Lionel waved his hand at Nathaniel, indicating he should sit again. The senior family member always greeted doctors. It was a measure of their importance.
Doctor Llewelyn was a jolly man, dressed in an old coat and carrying a battered medical bag. He beamed at Nathaniel as he entered and held out his hand.
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