The other day I was browsing through some of my favourite blogs when I found Art's and she was talking about places and memories. Well, first I have to apologise to Art for stealing her idea, but she made me think.
Her place was a road and so is mine. I grew up in a house that was on a long Roman Road. If I stood outside the front and looked into the distance I could see the church on a hill. The church was alone on the hill, with a large golden ball on the top of its tower.
I have travelled along that road so many times. For school. To shop. My man and I were married in the church and as I drove to the church that bright August day my heart was filled with love and excitement. The car was an old vintage Wolsey that could only make about 20 miles an hour. All the neighbours came out to wave me off and I sat next to my Dad, clutching his hand. He wasn't a man that liked to hold hands.
My sister travelled along that road, in the same car for her wedding, in the same church. A day full of rain, but my girl looked like a princess all the same.
And along that road we travelled in the black cars to the same church. Where we said goodbye to my Dad. Daddy. And the neighbours came out , this time hanging their hatless heads as tears dripped onto the road's pavement.
And still my Mum lives in the house on that road. Each time I drive there, I come over the crest of the hill to see the valley stretched out before me, cut in half by the road that holds so many memories.