|
Letters on a Grave Stone
Letters on a Grave Stone
It is whilst sitting here in the darkness of the early hours, staring through these constrictive bars that my normally arid mind is flooded with profound thoughts. How did we come into existence? Are we the only planet that supports life? What is the meaning of life? I know it may seem unlikely that someone in my position with little education could provide the answer to any of these questions but that doesn't stop me trying. I don't think it stops any of us. I dream of walking onto a well lit stage in front of an audience comprised of some of the most intellectual minds of our time and have them hang on my every word as I verbally unravel the mysteries of the universe to them. Threading their minds eye with my twine of knowledge and watching their looks of awe and jealousy as they struggle to comprehend the pattern of my weave. But that image seems almost too far removed from my present situation to be a possibility.
All is quiet now. The screams and cries of earlier have subsided into a fragile silence. I feel as though I am holding a priceless antique that could so easily break. The nights are long here - and the days? Demanding to say the least. You need to be alert and ready for anything for you can never predict what diverse problem will bestow you next. Behind these bars sleeps the future whilst the present becomes increasingly weary.
The pane of glass that keeps my world dry and warm is glazed with neglect. The view is obstructed by grime, outside and in. I have no wish to see the exterior world any more clearly. With the light out, my room is just as obscure. Like a half finished crossword paved with blank tiles waiting to be discovered by the light. On occasion however I do cast my gaze through the window. I pull aside my curtain of sadness and reminisce through guilt free eyes. It matters not weather the day is sunny or overcast. Black or bright the same scenes greet me like an old acquaintance, familiar and kind. Distant hills of rugged beauty pouring onto lush green fields where animals graze and free spirits wander. Where, as a child I would immerse myself in a world of fantasy and discovery. I spent hours playing there, my parents content that I was in no danger other than the threat from dragons and wizards conjured up by youth’s alternative reality. I can still hear the rush of water hurriedly cascading down the hillside. It puts me in mind of a crowd of egger marathon runners beginning their decent into exhaustion. Gradually their speed decreases until that one last push of effort carries them over the finishing line and they can finally rest. The waterfall’s race concluded at the starting point of a thousand childhood memories. It helped feed a slow moving river that snaked along the outskirts of the town and led eventually to the sea. Secluded by trees and decorated with large boulders the point at which the hillside fed the river was the perfect setting for many a lazy afternoon or playful adventure. My eye follows the hissing river to the bridge that spans it. The main route in and point of escape from our little town. If all the roads in the town were branches then the bridge would be the roots, houses the leaves and us the water. The population had dwindled over the last few years and no matter how high the river runs our tree looks more dehydrated by the day. As I look out over the town my eye begins to move more gingerly as my sight reaches the town center. I know that what I don’t want to see will still be there but yet at first glance over the roads of spaghetti it is not at first apparent. But like a magic eye picture it appears before me. The cold blade of my enemy tears a ragged cut through my gaze in the shape of Hanover Street. The last place you drew breath. And now it is all I can see.
I should never have sent you out that night. What would life be like now if you had refused or the nearby hop been open or if I’d remembered to get them when I was out? You would be enjoying life. Good job, happy family, fine health. And I would not be here looking through a window into the past. We would be together looking into the future. Building on our hopes and dream with bricks of determination and mortar of love.
She stares back at me with large, innocent eyes, face pressed hard against the bars that separate us. I hoist her up out of her cot and hold her in my arms. The warmth of her smile melting my heart and evaporating any icy thoughts of regret about my present situation. I don't know why you were taken from us so cruelly just days after you first laid eyes on your daughter. I must confess that since your parting I have carried a certain degree of anger and guilt to each new dawn and I can not envisage my unhappiness subsiding in the near future, if at all. I can however take comfort in the fact that you will live on in the smile and laughter of our beloved daughter Jessica.
I shall leave this letter sealed in an envelope by your headstone tomorrow morning. With time the paper will become sodden and the ink will revert to its liquid form and meander down the page. Like a thousand tears flowing down the cheek of a young mother attending her partner’s funeral these words will eventually disappear from view but will never truly vanish. My tree of sorrow will forever be green leafed.
We love you.
Claire and Jessica x x x
I returned the letter to its slightly weathered envelope and tucked the flap back in. As I bent to place the letter along side some sweet smelling roses I read the well defined inscription on the grave stone. "Charles Thompson, beloved husband and father, 1972-1999". And for the remainder of that warm and pleasant summer's afternoon I contemplated the meaning of life as I continued to mow the grass. The guilt continues to grow.
|
