Sad little memory. Sad there’s so little memory. My father returning home from months at sea. Late evening? Maybe the middle of the night. Lights on in the hall, bustling, hushed voices waking me. Excited, but I must stay in bed. I’m 3 perhaps, or 4. Daddy pops in to say goodnight. He shows me a beautiful lamp he’s brought me; a Spanish lady, her dress is the shade.
End of memory.
Though there is another. Clambering to get over those little raised entrances to cabin doorways on board his ship. My mother’s horror when I appear at dinner. These two are linked.
And one final shadowy event. On my mother’s knee when I learn that he had died.
Then mother threw away the vulgar lamp.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Oh that is very sad, Jan. Those snippets of memory show how dear your daddy was to you, and also, sadly, how insensitive your mum was with the lamp. She was probably so wrapped up in grief at becoming a widow that she lapsed into an independent thinking organiser for a while…. forgetting that it was your lamp! Yet, you still can imagine the cherished gift, as if it is still with you.
Margi x
Margi Thank you for that, Margi. Because my father died so long ago I felt I had lost touch completely with any memory of him. Writing being the wonderful creative and healing tool that it is has enabled me to start to dig about and find some little gems.
I’m stunned by the impact of this memoir work and hope to do lots more of it.
Thank you for taking the time to comment.