A friend of mine has been keeping an online journal for several years now. Since I moved away, this has served as one of few remaining connections to my old life and, especially in light of a diminished family presence (the relatives I still care for live many miles away), I value it as a quite precious resource.
After a failed attempt several years ago, I have been thinking of starting my own blog in the hope that it might present a similar touchstone to old friends. Primarily though, for my own benefit, I want to make an artefact of my thoughts - as I read my friend's journal, it occurs to me that too many of my own memories are plucked bare by time or uprooted altogether.
So, I'm starting again.
This weekend, my aunt and uncle visited us, along with their four children. I had not seen them for over five years, during which time I had been living with my new family - Sarah and her two daughters (whom I like to think of as my own) accepted and loved me at a time when everything was falling apart, and for that they will always have my devotion. Nonetheless, a persistent sadness has festered over the rending of my original family. Anne and Simon's visit has done much to lift this weight.
Our children played with their children; Anne and Sarah spoke like old friends, drinking wine; Simon regaled us as warmly and charismatically as I always remembered. Why had we not done this earlier? Two distinct families became one and the same, as if it had always been so.
I had to hold back tears as they left, assuring myself that this was a new beginning, and that none of us would let five years pass between us again. As Sarah consoled me I realised how lucky I really am.
