Writing the Manuscript
It's the final evening of my stay with my parents. For the past two weeks my brother and I have stayed with them to help out – to take the pressure off my Mum while my Dad has recovered from a viral infection that resulted in a hospital stay.
I leave tomorrow.
This evening I made enough dinner to freeze the leftovers into a number of pots for future meals. Meals my parents won't have to think about making. Healthy meals. I have no illusions that as soon as I leave they will be back eating chips.
I'm going to have to try not to think about that. I've done what I can.
The journey home will take about five hours if all the trains connect. Back to a world of clothes washing and tidying up – but also a world of smiles from my teenage daughters, of stories of the week just gone, and plans for the future.
While talking with my parents over the past week the difference between their world and the world of my children has been defined in quite stark relief. Where my parents are now elderly and reminisce endlessly about times past my children are filled with hope, longing and plans for the future.
I find myself in a strange limbo between the worlds of young and old – an automaton in the vast machinery of the universe – going around in circles, throwing money into a bottomless hole in the ground, and getting nowhere fast. Along the way I record stories that I will one day bore my children with.
Maybe through writing the blog I can just hand the manuscript over to them, and tell them “here – read this – then you don't have to listen”.