Dear Diary,
Today the sun poured warm gold over the old stone bench outside my cottage in Hawthorne, and I felt the first true breath of spring on my skin. Only the Good Lord knows how I survived the harsh winter that just slipped away. I wont make it through another one, I whispered to myself, then exhaled a sigh of relief. Im no longer afraid of the cold; Ive been waiting for this moment. My pantry is full of peas, Ive bought a fresh coat of wool, and theres little left to hold me to this earth.
Once, I had a bustling family my husband, Thomas Fletcher, a tall, steady man, and four children: three boys and a girl. We lived in harmony, lending a hand whenever needed, bickering only over the odd spoon. As the years passed each child grew and scattered like seeds on the wind.
Edward and James went off to university, then to Liverpool and Manchester for work. William struggled at school, later struck gold with a modest business that whisked him to the Continent, where hes still based. Eleanor left our little hamlet for London, fell in love, and married within a year.
At first the house echoed with their visits, letters, then the familiar ring of the mobile. Grandchildren trundled in one after another; Id pack my threadbare suitcase and pop over to watch them. But as they grew, their calls grew scarce, their visits rarer. Work, families, their own children all took precedence.
The only spark that drew us back to the old homestead was the news that Thomass father, Henry Fletcher, had passed. He was a robust farmer who many thought would live to a hundred, yet fate proved otherwise. After the funeral the children drifted apart; they called at first, then the ring faded. I tried to call myself, but I sensed they were busy, so I stepped back. Ten more years slipped by, punctuated by a yearly phone call from a child, enough to make me smile at myself for a week.
One quiet afternoon, as I sat on my bench, a young voice called out, Good afternoon, Aunt Margaret! A lanky lad stood by the garden gate, grinning. Dont you remember me?
I squinted. Tommy? What are you
Yes, Aunt Margaret! he shouted, stepping into the yard. He was the son of the neighbours who could never go a day without a feast. I remembered feeding him from my kitchen when his own pantry was empty, handing over spare clothes, and letting him stay the night when his parents were out for a dance.
His parents soon passed, and Tommy was taken away, never to return. I missed him terribly.
Where have you been all these years, Tommy? I asked, delighted.
First an orphanage, then the army, then university. Now Im back to raise my little homelandmy village!
I waved my hand dismissively. All the folk have gone.
He laughed, Dont worry, I wont disappear!
So a new chapter began. Tommy took a job with Mr. Irving, the biggest farmer around. In his spare time he patched up the old cottage his parents left him and helped me with the garden. I found myself calling him son halfheartedly, and we shared three pleasant years together.
One crisp morning he said, Im off, Aunt Margaret. Mr. Irving wants us to work for free. Im heading for work elsewhere. Dont be cross with me!
I smiled, Go with Gods blessing, lad.
And I was alone again. Some days the loneliness made me want to weep, but something always kept me rooted to this soil.
A familiar voice rang out, Good afternoon, Aunt Margaret! It was Tommy, now tall and sharply dressed, returning home.
My word, what a joy! I chattered, bustling to the kitchen. Come in, come in! Ill have the kettle on!
He chuckled, A kettle sounds perfect. I didnt expect to find you, so I didnt bring any biscuits!
Half an hour later we were seated at the old oak table, sipping tea from heirloom china, words spilling over the steam.
I feel the end is near, Tommy, I said, a tear slipping down.
Dont you dare! he joked, waving a finger. Ive earned enough, my own farm is thriving. Well live together, Aunt Margareteveryone will be jealous!
A bright, lilting voice interrupted, Is anyone home? I peered through the window and saw a girl in a short coat and highheeled shoes.
Who are you? I asked, stepping onto the porch with Tommy.
Im here for you, Aunt Margaret, she replied, smiling. Im your greatgranddaughter, the granddaughter of Edward, your eldest son. She introduced herself as Harriet.
She explained that her phone had died, so she came on a whim. We welcomed her, and Tommy lifted her suitcase. Harriet set down a basket of treats and began to tell her story.
I dont like city life, she confessed. I want to live in the village. My father, Edward, suggested I stay a few months, then I could return. I have money, Im not a beggar, and Ill be here until my exams are over.
I laughed, Stay as long as you like, dear. Its my pleasure.
A month passed, and I watched Harriet turn the neglected garden into a blooming patch of greens. With Tommys help she replowed the soil, laid out neat beds, erected a small greenhouse, bought seedlings from the neighbours, and planted with zeal.
Tommy used his earnings to build a modern farm, hired a few hands to repair my leaky roof, and installed central heating. My smile never left my face; I was no longer alone.
Yet when Harriet spoke of returning to the city, a shadow fell over me. I packed a parcel of scones and jam for her journey.
Youll come back, wont you? I asked.
She beamed, Of course! Ill water the garden every day, and Ill be back. I love you, Aunt Margaret. She added, Tommy even proposedan autumn wedding. Hes a true country lad!
A year later I sit in the sunshine, rocking a pram with my sleeping greatgreatgrandson. Harriet and Tommy tend the farm together; their hard work lifts the whole village.
I gaze at the tiny, peaceful face and think, Im not ready to depart yet; there are still children to help.
End of entry.