Dear Elsie!
You clung to life with such obstinate tenacity, which defied that apparent carnal incapacity you enjoyed throughout your long-drawn-out life. Such weakness which rendered you incapable of much more than reclining on a chair with feet propped up, recumbent and helpless, with just enough energy to watch the television. It was always something of a revelation, when you would suddenly spring to your feet to do the twist in the middle of the lounge floor, to impress the visiting vicar.
How often you reminded me that you couldn’t think «for the life of you» why you adopted me, if I broke a cup while washing up or if the sheets weren’t ironed to your imperious satisfaction. I silently wondered myself, what act of sheer endearment prompted you to adopt a newborn infant girl, when you so loathed all women. You had bonded so well with your adopted son John, as you romped around the beaches of Newquay for two years, while your husband, Frank earned your daily bread in London. He was gifted with a sense of moral compulsion, to send you away and keep you safely out of harm’s way while the WW2 bombs were dropping on London.
When I came along, as an illegitimate, unwelcome baby, my adoption was mediated through a Church member. You presumably thought it would look appropriately righteous and you would be seen as a benevolent spirit. How could you? You never touched me, you never showed any form of affection, let alone love, like you did to John. You gave him my rations of butter, sugar and meat until rationing ended when I was 8. He had the private dentist, the private Junior and Secondary school. He enjoyed all your bounteous gifts and you spoilt him so much, he actually turned criminal – it seemed he could never get enough of life’s goodies, so eagerly bestowed upon him.
It has taken me seven decades to find myself and feel that I have arrived where I should be. I am now a self-made woman with a recent history of much success, thanks to my own fervent efforts to make something of myself. But I still have daily flashbacks of you and your malicious demeanor towards me. My horror at finding myself somewhere where I am not wanted however, will follow me to my grave.
Talking of the grave, I often ask myself if you are propped up somewhere in a life beyond, with time on your hands to cogitate on the damage you deliberately imposed upon me. If you would follow my extremely difficult life, would you finally now rustle up a little fragment of pride in me? No I thought not. You will probably never know, the super-human effort I have had to make single-handedly in life, to pull myself out of the depths of the abysmal ruins you intentionally inflicted on me.
Not yours…………….
Rosemary
Photo: pixelio.de / Peter Reinäcker