Truth Holds Fast (standard:romance, 600 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Feb 01 2012	Views/Reads: 2650/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I once heard a song:If I Could Turn Back Time. Well, if I could I would still believe Truth Holds Fast.

I think, like most men of my age, my childhood, before eleven, remains
elusive. I kind of know or remember some things but not enough to have 
an idea on who I was. I was just a kid. Writing about myself after age 
eleven is easier, if somewhat uglier. It's like New York is easier to 
write about than San Francisco, but Chicago, Dallas and Fort William 
hardly come at all anymore. 

My mother, though her death is recent, is hardest of all to fit into
words, crowding my head and heart more than anything or anyone this 
past year. Physically, in later years she got heavier, mentally though 
she became - even at the end - more alert. Emotionally, we were close. 
I can now imagine her, but cannot yet frame the way she was for me in 
words. 

I believe, increasingly, that the writer in me is essentially alone. 

Some of the lines in my diary, written nearly forty years ago and only
recently set free, means I still find them true today. I am more and 
more concerned with truth. 

‘That I write so much on love must mean that it is paramount to me.' A
diary entry from March 1962 

‘I am Valentine searching for true love, still unopened, knowing I'll be
read...one day.' February 1969 

‘The carpet is faded and flower patterned, frayed at the entry.  On the
mantel in the sitting room is an enormous clock of black wood, centred 
between  mauve vases, while on the pale yellow walls a ‘Constable' 
imitation, The Haywain; and on another a water color painted by my 
mother. It is a painting of the street on which we live, cobbled, and 
leading down to the harbour. This is how mother passes the time while 
father is away. The painting begins at the north end of the street, 
looking south, passed the church, outside of which she has the Rev. 
Donohue speaking with a woman in a yellow dress, shadowed under the 
apple blossom. Mr. Ferguson's bread van is outside the Larkin's place, 
directly opposite the church, and almost hidden by a flowering 
Magnolia. It is a scene of utter contentment. The standing lamp, always 
on during the day, gives a soft light to a dark corner.  Father's 
chair, upholstered, winged and worn is within easy reach of the 
bookshelf, shelved with a myriad of sea-salt smelling books.' 
Christmas, 1972 

‘I raised my head from the pillow, gazed out the window and saw nothing
but the crisp, velvet darkness that hung over a tranquil, wintry and 
moonless ocean. The dream's aggression was disturbing, frightening 
enough that I could not simply lie there waiting for the freedom of 
morning's arrival.' November 1983 

More and more the diary reveals the man, the truth, the identity theft
of life. Who I was and who I became. There is no going back. I am where 
my footprints have brought me. 

‘I grew up among sea folk where rules are made according to wants, and
where social workers don't always know what's best. The pubs to this 
day still ring with rumour. Harry and Sid, and sadly my father have all 
since been laid to rest. Jack, once the only policeman on the island, 
his old rheumy eyes seeing everything, went to his grave with but one 
unsolved mystery. 

The week after my father's funeral mother and I showered him among his
friends off Malin Head, drifting towards Rockall. The day following I 
resumed duties. I'm first my father's son, second a body snatcher, 
third an officer and last, a pilot.' February 13 1994 


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