I won't rehash her birth story, I have blogged it before.
very late arriving.
We always joke about it, saying she didn't want to leave me.
When she was a toddler she was really Mummy's girl. She was such a sweet child, & such a great little friend.
I cried when she went off to school, with her big brother & her hair tied up.
Happy Birthday Sweet J~L.
November is a busy month for us, natally speaking.
A favourite Aunt had her 81st birthday on 5th.
My lovely nephew's birthday is on 9th, & he shares that with our sweet little Honey dog.
My Sister has her birthday on 15th.
My Beloved Brother will be 62 on 23rd.
& indeed, very strange sister has her birthday on 25th.
My maternal grandfather was born on 25th also, though he has been long gone from our lives.
A sketch from the train.....1
Waiting on the platform, watching the crush of humanity emerge from the bowels of the station, up the stairway. Harsh cold steps of concrete, tiled edges, cold rails. Rushing rushing.
It is as if the station is spewing up the people from it's gut.
Large people with large bags. All shapes & sizes.
The Airport line.
Travellers, laden with baggage. Not only the visible baggage, but physical & mental baggage I suspect. Some red eyes, perhaps from tears. Or maybe the foul air of the station bowels. (My physical, a bum knee, & an arthritic foot!)
A tall Sikh, with his carefully wound turban, (really a work of art) his beautiful flawless skin, & his neat clothes. Shoes grubby & scuffed. His huge beautiful brown eyes in his very delicate face.
A sudden grimace! Goodness! what had he seen to cause such a face?? I slowly turn to see, what he may have seen... ??
I see nothing of note. Figures continue past, hurriedly pushing & shoving.
"We are standing in a very awkward spot." I say to Gom & BB. "We seem to be in the way of traffic flow."
We shuffle aside a little further.
My eyes are drawn to the handsome Sikh again & again.
Again & again, I see the same grimace. His eyes appear unfocussed, distant. An unfortunate facial tic.
I wonder if I have such a thing.
As we take our seats in the carriage, the Sikh is opposite us, & alongside, a woman who has the most down turned mouth I have ever seen.
Her scowl is so severe, it is the only thing I see. I think I stared a little, transfixed.
I swear she has never smiled in her life, & the deeply carved down lines reinforce that impression.
I try a tenative smile. Recieve a sour glare in return. Glance at the handsome Sikh, smile a little. Another grimace!
BB & I exchange quick glances. We know what we are both thinking, have always had this ability to read each other's minds. It is hard not to burst out laughing at times.
Ms Sourpuss gets off at the Domestic Terminal.
I find myself hoping she sees someone who can turn the scowl around.
Mr Grimace turns sideways, puts his feet on the seat. I look at the slightly curled, dusty, scruffy, squared-off toes of his shoes. Somehow they don't fit with his neat clothes, & I suspect there is a loving mother, who takes care of those clothes. The trousers, carefully creased, just so.
When we reach the International Terminal, we all alight, & the Sikh man does so also. I watch him hurrying along, with his backpack, & his grimace. I wonder at his destination.
BB & I wonder aloud to each other, what could have caused Ms Sourpuss to be so scowly? We swear she has never, ever, smiled, let alone laughed!
How sad, to contemplate a life unlaughed!
Bob Dylan, Tangled Up In Blue.