I came back with nothing. I had returned to bed, and sleep, and reawakening, only to realise that it was beginning to slip through my fingers again. That thread, that narrative of hope, was being cut away by the return of doubt, self-doubt. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps it was my lot.
As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning by Laurie Lee
The stooping figure of my mother, waist-deep in the grass and caught there like a piece of sheep’s wool, was the last I saw of my country home as I left it to discover the world. She stood old and bent at the top of the bank, silently watching me go, one gnarled red hand raised in farewell and blessing, not questioning why I went. At the bend of the road I looked back again and saw the gold light die behind her; then I turned the corner, passed the village school, and closed that part of my life forever.
I have blamed Laurie Lee, as well as other writers, for my proclivity to wander away from the old and familiar. My life has been punctuated with commas, colons and semi-colons. Every now and again, there is a full-stop. A…
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