Underwood RoadSometimes I dream of walking along a road filled with drifting leaves. It is a memory that recurs; I walk down a sloping long road, coming home from school. I am five years old.
The leaves are golden and russet and the afternoon is a bath of sunshine, the last warm days of autumn. I think I am five, but it's hard to know. Barely five or barely six, anyway.
Soon I will be drawing trains in a small flat in Mullion, strolling with my mother and our dog in the village. It has no meaning. It is just what I remember.
I recall a fat baby in my lap, in a taxi coming home from the Bolitho nursing home. Did I really hold her on the way home? It seems like I did, but maybe it was only for a moment. Maybe it is only a desire to have held her. Does it matter whether what you remember is real or just what you felt once upon a time?
Sometimes I recall a smile or a laugh but cannot, even though I try, imagine what caused it. I remember how much I loved people I loved, but I can't think why.