by Paul Kelly
From then on, I couldn’t bear to look at the piano in the lounge. It looked so stupid and vacant standing there, gawky and out of place and I turned the pages of the Braille music in awe of the hand that had touched them before me. His touch... his most beautiful touch was on everything I looked at.
As always, Frampton was wonderful and helped me to arrange nearly everything that was required as well as taking care of Fleur and Rosie. Their grief made it all the more sorrowful for me too, and they were far too young to explain to them that they would never see their daddy again. They knew something drastic had happened of course, but I tried not to show my sorrow in front of them and if they inadvertently saw me crying, I would say I had knocked my head on the kitchen cupboard, or some similar excuse. That always seemed to satisfy them, but they did cling to me a lot and I felt that they knew more in their little hearts, than they would ever show. Frampton went around forcing smiles, but her face was pale and her eyes were red. Everything changed from the music and the chatter that we were so used to and we lived in a silent, sombre twilight of an existence. Even Fotheringay lay with his paws across his head under the piano and whined... I knew I had to live... although death would have been preferable, even if I did have children, who were so much part of Darius and myself. I had to make them the purpose in my life now, because they were his... the result of our great love for each other; the fruits of a love that was too perfect and beautiful to be contained in this world for long and like the rose that falls from the tree after her bloom, so too had my flower fallen after he had blossomed.
Finale
I remembered the fresh young, boyish face, with the smooth unblemished skin and the amber-green eyes, as he stood there in the desert, with his crisp new tropical uniform.
His legs were pale under his khaki shorts and his pith hat fitted badly on the back of his head.
That was in October 1945, in Basrah in Iraq …and I was happy.
I cried myself to sleep, knowing that I should have told him then, that I loved him. I should have been fearless of the consequences. I should have sunk my pride; my stupid, worthless pride, which brought me nothing but shame and suffering in the years to come with the marriage to a man I did not love. I was a fool and I knew it... and I vowed then and there, to bring up our children in love... real love... without pride or prejudice or class ...and I knew in that instant of sanity and realism, in my deepest grief, that if I did that, then I would be in praise and in honour of the man I truly loved, respected and adored. The man who had given me everything I ever wanted in life and expected nothing in return, but my love A simple, loving, caring man... A MAN CALLED DARIUS...
The End
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