The musty smell of hymn books transported me back to wartime Sundays. A shamed teenage evacuee; I was silent over half a century.
Norah wrote, sent a cutting from the local paper; thought I might be interested in the funeral details. Idle curiosity to her; deep pain to me. She knew nothing of the child his mother took from me.
He returned from war, welcomed by devoted mother and new sister. He never heard the truth. My daughter rose to speak about her brother, a lonely man. He spent his years waiting for his first love. I returned too late.
Norah wrote, sent a cutting from the local paper; thought I might be interested in the funeral details. Idle curiosity to her; deep pain to me. She knew nothing of the child his mother took from me.
He returned from war, welcomed by devoted mother and new sister. He never heard the truth. My daughter rose to speak about her brother, a lonely man. He spent his years waiting for his first love. I returned too late.
