April 1^st    Diane

There’s a booklet on the keyboard in here

In our bedroom in our holiday home.

Of someone I know nothing about, save a name.

The little book is her recollections and short fiction stories,

Collected and put together by her children in her memory.

 

Bitter cold winters in her childhood 1940’s;

Coal fires, thick woollens and scarves and socks,

Knitting, sewing, playing with a doll..

She only ever had one.

Days of little, of harshness, but days of long-gone love.

 

Dora who had a father who never smiled.

A mother who was sent away

When she had been only a baby.

And she never saw again,

Except in mirror visions.

 

Two friends sharing Seaside Sundays

And recounting unfulfilled different lives;

Supporting each other and re-appraising..

‘each other had discovered their route out of despair by learning from each other’

And a sailor’s church by the sea.

 

A doctor’s dilemma…

A piece of cake…

The reunion..

Little vignettes of tales from Diane.

But how much of these really were the story of your life? Or not.

I will never know.

 

Diane, I know nothing of your life or your work

Your family, your history, or of your love.

But I have read your stories

And am touched by you.