|Truth Holds Fast (standard:romance, 600 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Feb 01 2012||Views/Reads: 1150/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|I once heard a song:If I Could Turn Back Time. Well, if I could I would still believe Truth Holds Fast.|
I think, like most men of my age, my childhood, before eleven, remains elusive. I kind of know or remember some things but not enough to have an idea on who I was. I was just a kid. Writing about myself after age eleven is easier, if somewhat uglier. It's like New York is easier to write about than San Francisco, but Chicago, Dallas and Fort William hardly come at all anymore. My mother, though her death is recent, is hardest of all to fit into words, crowding my head and heart more than anything or anyone this past year. Physically, in later years she got heavier, mentally though she became - even at the end - more alert. Emotionally, we were close. I can now imagine her, but cannot yet frame the way she was for me in words. I believe, increasingly, that the writer in me is essentially alone. Some of the lines in my diary, written nearly forty years ago and only recently set free, means I still find them true today. I am more and more concerned with truth. ‘That I write so much on love must mean that it is paramount to me.' A diary entry from March 1962 ‘I am Valentine searching for true love, still unopened, knowing I'll be read...one day.' February 1969 ‘The carpet is faded and flower patterned, frayed at the entry. On the mantel in the sitting room is an enormous clock of black wood, centred between mauve vases, while on the pale yellow walls a ‘Constable' imitation, The Haywain; and on another a water color painted by my mother. It is a painting of the street on which we live, cobbled, and leading down to the harbour. This is how mother passes the time while father is away. The painting begins at the north end of the street, looking south, passed the church, outside of which she has the Rev. Donohue speaking with a woman in a yellow dress, shadowed under the apple blossom. Mr. Ferguson's bread van is outside the Larkin's place, directly opposite the church, and almost hidden by a flowering Magnolia. It is a scene of utter contentment. The standing lamp, always on during the day, gives a soft light to a dark corner. Father's chair, upholstered, winged and worn is within easy reach of the bookshelf, shelved with a myriad of sea-salt smelling books.' Christmas, 1972 ‘I raised my head from the pillow, gazed out the window and saw nothing but the crisp, velvet darkness that hung over a tranquil, wintry and moonless ocean. The dream's aggression was disturbing, frightening enough that I could not simply lie there waiting for the freedom of morning's arrival.' November 1983 More and more the diary reveals the man, the truth, the identity theft of life. Who I was and who I became. There is no going back. I am where my footprints have brought me. ‘I grew up among sea folk where rules are made according to wants, and where social workers don't always know what's best. The pubs to this day still ring with rumour. Harry and Sid, and sadly my father have all since been laid to rest. Jack, once the only policeman on the island, his old rheumy eyes seeing everything, went to his grave with but one unsolved mystery. The week after my father's funeral mother and I showered him among his friends off Malin Head, drifting towards Rockall. The day following I resumed duties. I'm first my father's son, second a body snatcher, third an officer and last, a pilot.' February 13 1994 Tweet
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