Remembering

Sometimes it´s a conversation with a grieving friend over lunch that reminds you. Her face turning angry as she explains the family situation since her loss. Her eyes growing sad as she looks down, her expression changing. Laughter and appetite, frustration and pain.
He left us 8 years ago and yet I still remember the moment he died. His golden beard hiding his thin, pained face. My mother gathering strands in between her fingers and cutting small, neat sections with her nail scissors; ´For us to remember the rich red of his beard even at the age of 79´. His ex wife of over 20 years. The woman who bathed him when he soiled himself and came walking anxiously up to our house. The person who offered him refuge, gave him food whenever he appeared at our door.

´I love you´ were the only words he could utter at the end. The dementia took away the rest of his words, his speech, his coherence. A disease that rots your brain ( In this case a lot of brain to steal away ) and leaves you helpless.

If I could say one thing to him now I would tell him that I learnt what unconditional love was from him. Dad; a man child. Dad; a lost and frustrated being consumed by addiction and poignancy. I will never love another person as I loved him. It would be impossible to replicate.
His soft, creased hands, observing his frailty. Feeling lost, knowing that every moment was doubly as precious as the last. Piecing together the past moments we had shared, his foibles, his habits. A lonely man who was engulfed by love from his young daughters. But it would be wrong to suggest it was one sided. How he adored us, never utterly a word of criticism. A hugely tolerant, accepting father. An atypical father figure. I was loved and I loved.

The other culture II

4-1-14

A day of work. A lunch hour devoted to visiting a garden centre, and having lunch in a steamy, humid cafe...

5-1-14

More chores in the local town. More time together.

6-1-14

A week of joy at teaching well educated, small, innocent creatures. A reminder of the positive aspects of my own culture. Happiness, dancing, artwork, visual observations of the environment and frenzied creative activity of the children.

7-1-14

A sense of calm. A still, sunny day. Familiarity. Recognition. Local life and how things change: my High School classmates now collecting their children from school. Greetings. Rushed conversations over the School wall.

8-1-14

Another success. Talent exuding from Year 6. Gratitude and a responsive attitude. 

9-1-14

Time to leave, to come back to Spain. A last, delicious lunch and a somewhat cold goodbye.

The other culture

23-12-13

The day of the party. The first glimpses of our town.

24-12-13

The house. A sense of expectancy.

25-12-13

A day of no photos, of quiet celebrations. A late evening Christmas dinner. No make up. A dog walk in the dark. A still night. No wind. No rain. By the sea.

26-12-13

An invitation to somebody else´s home. A veritable melting pot of hilarity from the man of the house. Fire on too high. A wine glass filled to the top with his best whiskey. All for me.

27-12-13

Non descript.


28-12-13

An anxious walk with an over excited dog. The bench. He died this day 7 years ago. My mother´s exquisite words etched onto a plaque. The view over to our house.

29-12-13

More indulgent drinking. No structure to the days. Simply endless time to enjoy and partake in social interactions without a sense of guilt or blame.

30-12-13

A day of outings.

31-12-13

The day just a pretext to the evening and it´s celebrations. 20 friends. An odd meal. The company outshining the food. A sense of being surrounded by people who truly know you; the child you, the old you, the current you. No words needed.  Elation.

 1-1-14

The New Year.

 2-1-14

The afternoon spent shopping. Then she left.

3-1-14

Domesticity...