As I may have mentioned before on this blog, I didn’t get along too well with my parents when they were alive. I think it’s possible that the chaos of World War Two, and being evacuated from London as a child of 8 in the early days of the Blitz to live with an Aunt in the countryside had something to do with this.

It was nothing conscious, mind you. But I think that at a sub-conscious level I felt I had been abandoned, and not knowing any better, blamed my parents for what had happened. It wasn’t true, of course. Mum and Dad still loved me very much. But what could they do?

Dad, a well-known reporter, joined the army and ended up serving as a war correspondent in India and the Far East, covering the British army’s struggle with Japan. Mum worked at Harrod’s bookshop in London in order to earn a living.

As for myself, I think I simply suppressed the feelings of confusion and pain which I felt at times. And suppressing stuff, as we all know, doesn’t work.

Thankfully–turning now to the present–I’m happy to say I now see my parents in a very different light than was the case long ago.

I see the courage, the love, and the indomitable spirit that was, and is, and always will be at the core of their being.

But more importantly, though my Mum and Dad are dead, obviously, and have been dead for quite awhile now, I find myself face to face with a remarkable mystery. I feel my parents’ presence with me in these latter days of my life. I feel their love. I feel their support. Is it possible that love is timeless–that time is not the barrier we may think it is?

My love to you, and if you have any thoughts on the above, please write.