Words Unspoken
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You sit there in your room, that shrunken world, surrounded by trinkets; an attempt to anchor the tides of your ebbing memory.
I have been told that you dislike visitors but I have come nevertheless, before I lose my nerve.
Despite the warning, you gaze up and smile at me, this stranger, entering your room.
I perch uncomfortably on the edge of a chair.
All my life I had waited for this moment. Now on the knife edge of a revelation, I was rendered mute, wondering if coming here was a good idea.
I must have spoken eventually. I can’t remember. It was probably about the book that lay open on your lap. It turned out that, like me, you were an avid reader. I couldn’t help but wonder what else we had in common.
You talked of how happy you were, living in this big house opposite the spiritual church you used to attend. It turned out you were interested in the paranormal, too, so we talked of connections and inexplicable coincidences until we were interrupted by a knock at the door.
It was a carer, returning to check that you were alright as you had displayed a high temperature during the night. Reassured, she left us to resume our conversation.
There was this pause before you looked at me intently. I waited uneasily, until you spoke those words I will never forget: “I don’t know who you are, but I like you and am so glad you came.”
Those words meant the world, yet still I said nothing. How could I tell you?
Some things are just too big to speak of.
I left soon after, acutely aware not only of staying too long but consumed with fear of what I might say.
At least I knew I was welcome to return.
The intervening week however, seemed interminable. Perhaps I would tell you then, or would it be too much? Was it selfish stirring up a past you might prefer to forget? Did I even need to tell you?
As it happened, fate intervened and the decision was taken from me.
When I returned the following week, the lady on reception informed me that you had died the day after my visit.
It is hard to grieve for someone I never knew but felt I had. How can I expect anyone to understand when I do not understand myself? It was as if our meeting fulfilled an inevitable destiny. Something you would have certainly understood.
All I do know is that your acceptance of me, the daughter you gave up for adoption, was a gift beyond words.
Find more that you just might relate to at the MockingOwl Roost.
Lucy
Lucy is a retired tutor who moved to the South Coast of England to begin a new life after discovering her roots, having traced her ancestors back over centuries. As an adopted person this had a special relevance. She enjoys writing and art in her spare time.
