England, 1945
They say the past is a foreign country. A place filled with
a hundred sepia-toned memories of frozen lifeless figures going through the
motions of living. But what do they know. My past hurtles dangerously fast,
spinning me around and around on an endless merry-go-round, until I feel like I
might be flung off and dashed in two. Like a sped up film roll those faces,
first smiling, then weeping, then angry, beckon me only to vanish with the
whirring and clacking as the film reaches its inevitable end.
As I watch the once familiar English countryside rush past
my window I cannot help but wonder whether it is in fact the past I am
travelling to now. Yet as I blink and my vision clears I can see the differences
that have been wrought by war and the passage of time. There are scars upon the
landscape and the tired etching of my own face is dimly reflected in the glass.
I gaze intensely at that reflection trying to find the spark
of the girl somewhere in the woman’s face. Rain resolutely strikes the window causing
the image to blur and run like watery paints across a canvas. Disappointed I
hunch back into my seat. The train carriage fills with the hum of conversation and
a teaspoon chimes richly against a china saucer.
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