Given that my mother committed suicide, under the most adverse circumstances I might add, safely can I say: "As my God was suicide, earlier in my life my mother killed herself, unto yourself, were you a world.". Now, as a pensioner, I want to welcome you to my remembrances. With forty years gone by, I now ask: "Why?". Once upon a time, we enjoyed our mother's company; she would read us fairytales. Allowing my mother to exist again, and unbidden as it was, coming from the depths of darkness of the forest of memory, other memories were stirred up by this memory. My mind was allowed to go back. Quietly did I uncover the memories. The memories I now beheld, made up of the most disparate things, tenanted walls, a fire's ceaseless roaring, began to constitute a new whole. Sleeping pills killed her. She waited till everybody else was asleep. This memory brought other memories to the fore.
Once life consisted of a rocking horse; as our possession, "our" would signify that it belonged to my brother. My mother would read to us at night; the Arabian Nights were the tales that most regaled us; in the process of being read to, the rocking horse had gone missing. Her colour was gold and blue. She was our silent ferryman. My mum had thrown it out..
Once life consisted of a rocking horse; as our possession, "our" would signify that it belonged to my brother. My mother would read to us at night; the Arabian Nights were the tales that most regaled us; in the process of being read to, the rocking horse had gone missing. Her colour was gold and blue. She was our silent ferryman. My mum had thrown it out..
