REFLECTIONS OF TIME
BY FIONA CUMMINGS
Father Time visited me and I would like to share his visit
with you all. Are you sitting comfortably?
My story begins as so. I took the long undulating walk from
my place of work to the little village where I live. Passing by the old miners
homes built of stone with original crooked windows illuminated by the odd glow
of a candle or an amazingly decorated Christmas tree. Baubles from a past I
could only imagine. Made by children with their Grandparents, around the coal
fire with cut up fabrics, wood, and straw and ribbons to tie onto the tree.
Baubles in modern days that would be thrown away without a thought or care into
the history behind the making of the decorations. But to these families, they
mean something. They represent the old meaning of family values. Sadly again, a
value from times gone by.
The village church has a huge wreath outside the flaky
wooden door, crafted by the local children. A circle of dried fruit and branches,
twisted ferns and pinecones.
I heard the rehearsal of what will be the village nativity
play.
Sounds of excited children and those grownups franticly running
around trying to organise what will be a meaningful evening for the villagers.
Passing the old oak tree with a balloon which had obviously
escaped from somewhere or someone. It had got tangled in the tall finger like
brittle branches, bruised by the December harsh winds.
Through the creaking timber gate that needed oiling last
Christmas. Down my path of crunchy gravel framed by wood chippings. The two
Christmas trees I planted when my children were young they have grown far too high
now to be so close to my cottage, but I don’t have the heart to dig them up as I
have fond memories of the time I took from the garden shed my rustic spade and
two small trowels so my little children of seven and nine could participate in
the plantations!
The fragrance from the ferns at this time of year is
delightful.
As I turn the key in my door, my old Labrador Hannah meets
me with such a welcome. My cat Arthur sits up high on my piano just staring at
me as though to say he has had a tough day avoiding the chase of Hannah. He’s
an old guy now of seventeen.
I don’t have a Christmas tree. I have no parcels to wrap and
won’t be receiving any either as sadly, I’m of no use any more to my children
in the selfish world we live in. But my pets, I live for them and they never
ask for anything other than food and love.
My Livingroom floor
is of stone but my heart melts when I return home to Hannah and Arthur.
I poke the fire and watch the amber flames flicker as I tare
newspaper to burn.
Feed some chicken and rice to the furry ones and some broth
for myself. Then I take Hannah for her evening walk across the ivy cladded
hills. In the cobalt sky, I thanks to the moon can make out the bucolic beatific
rural surroundings.
My torch shines on my girl who with her jet fur can barely
be seen. Back to the cottage we go, where the smoke from my chimney I see
forming majestic movements throughout the bitter, and yet blissful eve!
As I pulled shut the bolt to my back door I took from the
decanter some sherry, pouring it with care into a glass, only one left in the
set my wife and I received for our wedding thirty seven years ago. I toasted my
beloved. This time of year is more difficult without her. This would have been
the second year without her. She was taken from me far too early and the blame
is on me as far as my children are concerned, so hence I don’t see them or my
tiny Grandchildren. I mask the pain with the warmth of a glass or two of the
seasonal sweet taste.
As I sit in the rocking chair that was made by the
hardworking hands of my old dad when I first married, I notice as I sip from my
glass the reflections of the flames in the glass doors of my cabinet.
You know when the house is a sleep and it’s dark. The wind can
be heard roaring outside you are the only person in the house and yet you sense
someone else? The hairs on the back of my neck met with my collar and a shiver
ran down my back.
The ticking of the Grandmother clock in the hall echoed as
the breathing from another danced along the piano keys.
I won’t lie to you, I was numb with fear. But then the wistful
hollow tones of a voice I felt I knew.
I was right, it was Father Time. He asked me why I was
thinking so deeply on this dark December night. I told him that I just didn’t
feel Christmas anymore. He whispered as he leaned over the back of the fireside
chair at the other end of the room, as by this point I hadn’t seen him, I was
almost too afraid, but I felt where he was an knew what he was doing.
“You have no right to feel in such a way.”
I expostulated. “How dare you judge me? The person who
filled my heart with love has been torn away from me and those born to her I
don’t even know where they are. All of
the romance the joy the greed of the commerce and conflicts in war. Where is
the giving the love and sharing. Where are the family values?”
“Young man.” Father
Time exclaimed. “Look around you. You have a place to work where you talk with others;
you have a warm house full of food and your pets. When was the last time you
went to see your neighbour who is also on her own?”
“I don’t see her as she doesn’t leave her home?” I replied.
“And have you asked yourself why that is?”
I then sore the figure of an ancient man with a long cloak a
beard and an hour glass by his side. Everything seemed to make sense. I knew
what I had to do with my time. I knew.
As Father Time faded into the darkness of the night, in my
head I made plans and from now on, life would be good. I wouldn’t be going to
the church on my own this year. And on my way home, I would pass by old Jacks
and get him to cut down a tree for me to place by my hearth. Life will change
now. I had some searching to do and questions which needed answering.
Merry Christmas and remember that neighbour you haven’t seen
for a while.
Copyright Fiona Cummings 2015
No comments:
Post a Comment