Memoria

I touched his face, his hair. His body. Cold. Hard. His face had no lines. It’s been said, the worry lines leave you instantly upon death. Will I lose my creased brow, I thought. Redemption by Lyn Mitchell Reflections in old age can grab your mind and transport you in fractions of time. Moments in our unique journeys are like flag posts in a desert of inconsequential living. A word, a smell, a piece of music. Redemption was always waiting to be written, to be purged. Dad’s death mask was always in my mind’s eye. It never left me. I tried to paint out the memory but it was in a tute at Uni, a trigger was set up and I could expel what had been festering inside. Understanding, without forgiving, never forgetting, but finally being able to accept being born was to be regaled, and thankful that the sins of the father are not visited upon the sons or daughters. We can learn from before, and we can set a different path. Lyn never felt educated. She left school in 1961 at year 10 level and fleeing