Memories of home: are they simply shadows in the mist?

She saw a cat that was not there. I agreed that it was beautiful and asked her its name.

Mum, like many others, slips in and out of lucidity. Sometimes memories are fuzzy. She can remember my Gran vividly at the point where she was herself a child, and seemingly not quite figure out who I am. Then again it must be difficult to see a middle aged man and connect it with the child you carried and nursed.

As I drove around my home town on Tuesday, I think I realised I saw things differently too. I see Sheffield through the lens of my childhood eyes. The buses had changed colour (I remember going to town for 1p as a child. Good old Sheffield. I remember Blunkett and Billings: dream team, probably spent too much on the WSG… I had left by then and probably so had they)

The school had changed name too. As had the chippy, where we snuck out each lunchtime for a cob and chips. They were there the teenagers gathered around the shop, and for a moment it was Hancock, Gillott, Garlick and Walshaw (I even manage to fuse different names from different parts of my growing-up hood)

The Pub has closed… and the rickety-rackety shop (Joe Gould’s) has gone: where can you get a penny bag of wine-gums now?

The neighbours had gone too: how did I get this old?

I remember a different estate to the one that is there now: although there are commonalities: friendship, solidarity, community and stories.

Then again, maybe a remember an estate that was never there, as I just about stop at the red traffic light and feel the stares of those looking at me.

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About 1urcher

Erratic Vicar
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