the migrant wife

I wish we could *know* when we were living our “good old days”. I wish we could meander along, tracing back our hasty steps through hurried life and hustle, dawdle and relive the moments of bliss and laughter, and perhaps cover over the footprints made by our dragging our reluctant feet through sorrowful valleys. I often wonder, what will I remember of these days? Will the memory joyous frolicking at a friend’s wedding celebration seem pale against decades of faithful companionship? Or perhaps, will the gentle flickering of candle-light, the knowing silences that follow soul-reaching conversations in the car, the fresh-brewed Yorkshire gold will feature in my reminiscing? No, simple memories like these don’t tend to weave their way into rememberings.

Yet I protest – what are dull moments now but fragments which, when pieced together, reveal the topography of the “good old days”? Probably won’t know until I’m sat in an armchair with a crocheted blanket sipping tea with my octogenarian friends – until then, I’ll be glad to live my dull days with my usual thrust of life and excitement…