A day I remember well.
Those books do not interest me which are not written in the author's blood and tears The carefree bounce of the sunlight from the leaves of a tree. The child's carefree singing as he skips along a path laden with autumn leaves. The parent's reluctant joining in on the child's wild abandon, freeing them from the anxieties of a middle class existence. As they walk along together and feed the ducks splashing around in the pond. That is a day I remember well. The thoughts of getting ahead in the ladder of work. The envy of comparison with those who had been around them. The resigned hopelessness of a failing marriage. Exploding into a flurry of rage. The pure desperation and frustration of two children who never quite learnt to express these things. Or perhaps were never heard. But that is not the story I lived through. For it was the grating on my ears, of the sadness in their anger and the softness in their rage. That is a day I remember well. The wonder at