My mother died when I was 8. I was shipped off to an aunt's while the funeral was arranged. I did not attend the funeral, and nobody ever spoke about her dying. I suppose all the relatives were being sensitive, and protecting my innocence. I did not see the mourning process. There was no expression of grief. I would have expected if I had been at the graveside I would have seen some tears surely.
I never saw my father crying over the loss of his wife, and he never talked to me about it. But I do remember one incident that has stayed with me for life.
We lived in an upstairs house and if you lifted the letterbox lid you could look right up the stairs to the top of the landing. My father loved to stand at the top of the stairs and play the fiddle. He said it was because the acoustics were good.
One day soon after my mother had died I came home and I could hear him playing at the top of the stairs. Instead of opening the door and going in, I lifted the letterbox lid and peered into the gloom. He was playing "the flours o' the forest have a wee'd a'waw" a lament to grieve the dead at the battle of Culloden moor, and what pain and sorrow he had never been able to say in words cames streaming out of him in this one song.
I blinked and tears came to my eyes and I let the letterbox lid quietly drop. I waited until he had finished playing then went in.
He didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything either.
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