I’m feeling contemplative, reflective, pensive, and maybe just a tiny bit morose. Carole King’s masterpiece, So Far Away, is playing. It is one of my favourite songs. I am on my second glass of a heavy red wine.
“You’re so far away. Doesn’t anybody stay in one place any more ? It would be so fine to see your face at my door.”
The lyrics make me remember the good times. For me, So Far Away is not just about distance, it is about time. Can I suggest you listen to Carole’s melodies as you read the rest of this post?
I remember my mother dressing me, in a red skirt and a red jumper. I can only have been about three.
I remember swinging high on the swing which hung from the apple tree in our small garden. The red bike that my dad had rescued from a local dump, renovated, painted red and stuck stickers on lay on the grass near the tree.
I remember lying in bed with my grandmother and my sister. My dad walked in to tell us that we had a baby brother.
I remember Sunday family roast followed by rhubarb crumble and custard when we were children.
I remember my mum taking me to an art gallery when I was off school following an operation on my hand.
I remember writing to Jim’ll fix it. He didn’t. Thankfully.
I remember being in love. I remember us being the only people at some stunning Mayan ruins in Mexico.
I remember telling the man I loved that I wanted us to split up. A butterfly cannot thrive unless it is set free. He* sobbed.
I remember looking at the Imam Mosque in Esfahan, Iran and being overcome by the grace and beauty of the dome.
I remember looking down at the newborn baby on my stomach and not really knowing what to feel.
I remember looking down at my son as he breastfed. I remember him looking back up at me and pausing to smile.
I remember lying on the floor next to my son sobbing because I had failed to give him the happy family childhood that I had.
I remember the wonder on my son’s face the first time he played in proper sand on a beach.
I remember doing the ‘toilet bowl’ flume at Center Parcs with my sister and being worried that she might miscarry her 14 week old foetus. She didn’t, but we still shouldn’t have done it.
I remember watching my son look at his new cousin with curiosity and puzzlement.
“There’s so many dreams I’ve yet to find” (sic).
Yes, indeed, Carole, there are so many dreams that I have yet to find. Bring on 2017 and another new dawn.
* He is not Cygnet’s father.