Vegetable Memories

 

© PaulStainthorp / Flickr

 

Late in the day I see a blog asking for autumnal reflections but my body refuses to move with the season, convulsing and racked, head woolly and thick like the over washed wool jumper I had tried to revive last week, scratching at the surface with a dull razor. All previous warm blanket memories hide in black deep pockets in my head.

 It is days like this when divorced, middle aged, and looking it springs to mind, I decide to sit and fester in a bubble of self pity until some kind of momentum makes me move. That’s when I remember the turnip, poor man’s pumpkin, sat watching dad carve our tea into a face, he bends the wire over the top and we sit and wait for the darkness to come.

I don’t really remember the houses we called at,  just him and me,  a scrap of a girl (hair pulled into a horses plait) and  dad with hot pea soup, black as black nights, the fire, being washed in the sink with “pears soap” still triggering  technicolour memories today and much laughter, embracing the passing of another season, living and waiting for the frosty mornings to come.