Every cold white winter eve
Santa comes and says 'Good Steve!
'I've got a present for you!
And for your sisters of course too!'
Steve wakes up in the morning
rubbing his eyes and yawning.
'what a nice warm winter night,
and Santa gave me a brand new kite!'
Good old Santa lovely man
Every night he comes eating ham.
Eyes
Friday, 25 December 2015
Wednesday, 23 December 2015
Home (Part III)
The years in Athens, living by the sea. Problems are the same all over the world, but with the sun on your back and the smell of the ocean they seem lighter. The money just wouldn't stretch in Greece, so they moved to Munich. Back in Munich the smiles didn't stretch as far as the money did. The problems are the same wherever you go. In the grey and cold of the central European winter, they seemed different.
The sun kept bobbing in and out as they travelled and lived in Turin, Rome, Berlin, Munich, Vienna and somewhere along the way, seven years on, their second son was born. To him they were both his - the son that Lilly brought into the marriage and the son they gave birth to. So clear was his responsibility and love towards them both, that his step-son never felt the need to look for or know his biological father. As a child and into adulthood, to this day that remains. How perfectly must that role be played if a child could never tell the difference! They were father and son. Of that, neither ever had any doubts.
While the younger one was just a toddler, there were patches when they had to live apart until job stability and the child's schooling could be brought back into sync. That's the drawback of moving often with a school going child. A drawback, and one of the biggest regrets. To have uprooted a school going child every two years, just when he'd settled into his new environment, made new friends and felt secure - to make him do it all over again. It wasn't right. In the end, it wasn't worth the stress on a child, to have a few hundred more on your pay check at the end of the month. He could have been more sensitive, more mindful of the effects of his decisions. Something that weighs down on him to this day. They were father and son, he should have done better. Enough years have gone by to let it go. He still hasn't forgiven himself.
Both the boys are absorbed in their lives. They rarely call to find out how he is. Lots of parents have that problem when the kids leave home. That's ok. That's how it is now. There is no bitterness, no anger. There is no self-pity in solitude.
Sadness. There is sadness. A sadness that is exceeded only by an acceptance and understanding. Not burdened on any other. A naturally cheerful disposition transforms insistent melancholy and grief into self-reflection.
For self-reflection there is ample time. Endless time. Homesickness was something he never knew. Since being called up for military service at the age of 18 he's been away from home, and never been homesick. Some say home is where the 'heat' is, to recharge the solar-cells. Still others say home is where you hang the hat.
Home was where Lilly was. Never mind, she was still in Rome while he had to move to Turin or he was in Munich while she had to stay back in Vienna. She was on this planet. She was home.
Ever since she's passed, the sun is setting in the twilight years. Homeless.
The sun kept bobbing in and out as they travelled and lived in Turin, Rome, Berlin, Munich, Vienna and somewhere along the way, seven years on, their second son was born. To him they were both his - the son that Lilly brought into the marriage and the son they gave birth to. So clear was his responsibility and love towards them both, that his step-son never felt the need to look for or know his biological father. As a child and into adulthood, to this day that remains. How perfectly must that role be played if a child could never tell the difference! They were father and son. Of that, neither ever had any doubts.
While the younger one was just a toddler, there were patches when they had to live apart until job stability and the child's schooling could be brought back into sync. That's the drawback of moving often with a school going child. A drawback, and one of the biggest regrets. To have uprooted a school going child every two years, just when he'd settled into his new environment, made new friends and felt secure - to make him do it all over again. It wasn't right. In the end, it wasn't worth the stress on a child, to have a few hundred more on your pay check at the end of the month. He could have been more sensitive, more mindful of the effects of his decisions. Something that weighs down on him to this day. They were father and son, he should have done better. Enough years have gone by to let it go. He still hasn't forgiven himself.
Both the boys are absorbed in their lives. They rarely call to find out how he is. Lots of parents have that problem when the kids leave home. That's ok. That's how it is now. There is no bitterness, no anger. There is no self-pity in solitude.
Sadness. There is sadness. A sadness that is exceeded only by an acceptance and understanding. Not burdened on any other. A naturally cheerful disposition transforms insistent melancholy and grief into self-reflection.
For self-reflection there is ample time. Endless time. Homesickness was something he never knew. Since being called up for military service at the age of 18 he's been away from home, and never been homesick. Some say home is where the 'heat' is, to recharge the solar-cells. Still others say home is where you hang the hat.
Home was where Lilly was. Never mind, she was still in Rome while he had to move to Turin or he was in Munich while she had to stay back in Vienna. She was on this planet. She was home.
Ever since she's passed, the sun is setting in the twilight years. Homeless.
Sunday, 20 December 2015
Home (Part II)
His shakes are more violent today than the last time. The Parkinsons' acting up he says, brushing it off. It's been a while since the last time we met. Every time I promise to come back soon, I never do. Life gets in the way.
My kids keep digging at my conscience, asking when was the last time I saw my old friend. As I've said before, we raise them. They teach us.
Trevor is a jolly kind, he always was. You can see that. Jolly and adventurous. To him getting called out to join the army at 18 was more of a break than a dread. Although an only child, from a loving home in Leicester, he couldn't help but cease the opportunity to explore new horizons. That was around the early 1950's and the chances that came by for such things were limited. He travelled to Germany, went on to Austria and was on his way ahead when he met Lilly.
Nights are often the best part of the day, he says to me. In his dreams she seems so real, he can almost smell her. When he wakes up, she's gone and he's alone again. Her last few years were ones of intense care. She was wheel chair bound, almost invalid. Years of anxiety medication and high blood pressure had got the better of her. Giving her care, had filled his days. She had been the homemaker through their 5 decades together. Caring for and loving him and the two boys. When it was she who was the baby, he had applied himself with dedication and tenderness. Having learnt well from her example.
On some unkinder nights he wakes up in a cold sweat with a pounding in his chest. In his dream he's wheeling her, chatting and laughing along the way, only to bend down and find no Lilly. The wheel chair empty.
Still, he likes the nights. For the times he's with her and life is complete again.
Complete, like he had felt in Vienna with her toddler on his shoulders and Lilly by his side. Only just into adulthood himself, there was a lot of cautioning about a woman eight years his senior, with a child of her own. It didn't deter him. He had wandered off far from where he belonged. With her he was home.
His face lights up as he tells me this, just like it does when I walk into the restaurant - his dining room for the past six year. The same time, every day of every month of every year, he's here. Right at this very table by the window, on his own. Just where I first met him. The way it's squared off with an old broken piano against one wall and his wheel chair by the other, you even play into his imagination of this being his home. Since Lilly has gone, he uses her wheel chair as a walker for himself. It doubles as a ready respite when asthma leaves him heaving for air on the short walk over. 'You know where to find me if you're looking for me', he jokes in his mails as he gently prods for a visit, saying his fingers are too old for typing - they just won't tap dance the way they used to! Trevor has clearly always been the people's person. He has a timeless charm about him, and a stunningly graphic memory that shames me. I have lists for everything. I have lists for the lists I have everything for. All my memories are replaced by tasks, jobs on the lists of lists. 'Visit Trevor' is the one I'll be checking off today. Between the mechanics of life, we lose sight of living it. What's your strongest memory I asked him. The answer took about twenty seconds in the coming. One pouring autumn evening in the early phase of their dating, Trevor was miserably late to meet Lilly. He played the Clarinet at a band. That night they were held back for a few extra pieces. When his Taxi finally pulled over by her building, she was waiting in the rain. As he got off, she ran out to hug him. 'You came' she had said in joyful disbelief, 'You came!'
We stay in that moment for a bit, smiling to ourselves. What's your strongest memory, he asks me. What moment in your life left a most striking impression?...I look at him and think. I'm still thinking.
My kids keep digging at my conscience, asking when was the last time I saw my old friend. As I've said before, we raise them. They teach us.
Trevor is a jolly kind, he always was. You can see that. Jolly and adventurous. To him getting called out to join the army at 18 was more of a break than a dread. Although an only child, from a loving home in Leicester, he couldn't help but cease the opportunity to explore new horizons. That was around the early 1950's and the chances that came by for such things were limited. He travelled to Germany, went on to Austria and was on his way ahead when he met Lilly.
Nights are often the best part of the day, he says to me. In his dreams she seems so real, he can almost smell her. When he wakes up, she's gone and he's alone again. Her last few years were ones of intense care. She was wheel chair bound, almost invalid. Years of anxiety medication and high blood pressure had got the better of her. Giving her care, had filled his days. She had been the homemaker through their 5 decades together. Caring for and loving him and the two boys. When it was she who was the baby, he had applied himself with dedication and tenderness. Having learnt well from her example.
On some unkinder nights he wakes up in a cold sweat with a pounding in his chest. In his dream he's wheeling her, chatting and laughing along the way, only to bend down and find no Lilly. The wheel chair empty.
Still, he likes the nights. For the times he's with her and life is complete again.
Complete, like he had felt in Vienna with her toddler on his shoulders and Lilly by his side. Only just into adulthood himself, there was a lot of cautioning about a woman eight years his senior, with a child of her own. It didn't deter him. He had wandered off far from where he belonged. With her he was home.
His face lights up as he tells me this, just like it does when I walk into the restaurant - his dining room for the past six year. The same time, every day of every month of every year, he's here. Right at this very table by the window, on his own. Just where I first met him. The way it's squared off with an old broken piano against one wall and his wheel chair by the other, you even play into his imagination of this being his home. Since Lilly has gone, he uses her wheel chair as a walker for himself. It doubles as a ready respite when asthma leaves him heaving for air on the short walk over. 'You know where to find me if you're looking for me', he jokes in his mails as he gently prods for a visit, saying his fingers are too old for typing - they just won't tap dance the way they used to! Trevor has clearly always been the people's person. He has a timeless charm about him, and a stunningly graphic memory that shames me. I have lists for everything. I have lists for the lists I have everything for. All my memories are replaced by tasks, jobs on the lists of lists. 'Visit Trevor' is the one I'll be checking off today. Between the mechanics of life, we lose sight of living it. What's your strongest memory I asked him. The answer took about twenty seconds in the coming. One pouring autumn evening in the early phase of their dating, Trevor was miserably late to meet Lilly. He played the Clarinet at a band. That night they were held back for a few extra pieces. When his Taxi finally pulled over by her building, she was waiting in the rain. As he got off, she ran out to hug him. 'You came' she had said in joyful disbelief, 'You came!'
We stay in that moment for a bit, smiling to ourselves. What's your strongest memory, he asks me. What moment in your life left a most striking impression?...I look at him and think. I'm still thinking.
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