Four months to be exact. The zenith of our English summer, although it seems August is becoming ever more frequently a mash of wind and rain that batters the beautiful blooms of June and July. I remember sitting in our living room looking out at the mud being churned by our small flock of sheep, watching the huddled feathery balls that are our few chickens cowering under their house, and reaching to flick on the light as the room got gloomy and cold. August.
Martin's mother died that month. It was a shock, she was still young. There was so much to do and suddenly life wasn't the same for any of us, hence this diary got pushed to the back of a drawer. I couldn't talk to anyone, not even to its quiet pages. But I find myself lifting its cover once more and mulling over the next entry which I hope will be full of hope and new life.
It's January 2nd now. A brand new year. Let's move on.
No comments:
Post a Comment