One of my first memories is reading in bed in summer. I specifically recall reading ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses.’ I seemed to be in bed early (had I been naughty?) But with a summer breeze blowing and the sun outside it is a memory that still glows. I still relish creeping into bed in the late afternoon and reading.
Visions drift through the mind – places, people, scenes, voices, scents. A mishmash of images. Or are they remembered photographs? Or tales retold later from mother, grandfather, friends? Perhaps these memories are imaginings; dreams; other people’s stories entwined with my own. Stories I have told myself that never really were. The fiction of our lives – the rememberings.
Nothing gave me greater pleasure as a little girl than a field full of wild flowers. Come to think of it, I still feel the same.