I was born.
13 years previously my grandfather had been knocked from his push bike by an American oil tycoon. My first struggling breaths witnessed by my father, the same person to watch & listen to his fathers last. This is not my memory but it has become part of me.
Within a roughcut wooden shed, belonging to my grandmother, I wondered at the countless salvaged loose & varied screws held captive in small jam jars by 19 years worth of cobwebb. This was not my first memory but it is close to me.
My grandmother’s carefully selected, cut & kept newspaper clippings, favoured recipes & faded photographs, unbearably weightless tear stained memories, folded, lovingly handled & placed in treasured biscuit tins. These memories are now held by me.
Twenty eight years pass & I stand cold wet head bent face to the cut and opened ground. In the evening I placed the softest deepest plush red hat & a scalf of raw silk Paisley patterned rich with the scent of lavender & camphor & my grandmother into sealed bag. I breath & hold these memories.
At thirtyfour years & ten months oh my daughter born of me true pure love & joy. Precious heart held memory of mine.
Thirtyfour years & eleven months oh my brother, steped out on a journey of fourteen floors to lie on soft green grass. The words of my father chain-stoking stalking & stalling creeping cold numbing words of a world fallen to the ground. For me my brother forever stands suntanned smiling in my mind. This memory is hard, set around me.