Tomorrow Becomes Yesterday - Evelyn J. Steward (ebook reader with built in dictionary TXT) 📗

Tomorrow Becomes Yesterday

I dare not think about tomorrow.
But I remember yesterday and the other days that have long since passed. Days when the sun shone and I was happy because I had no worries, no pressures; as a child, there was nothing I could do to change the world or make it different. Society says that a child is not responsible.
Days when then sun shone, even though the world was in turmoil. Long Summer days that lengthened into even longer dreamy evenings where the sun seemed to hang forever low in the western sky.
Afternoons where the heat was never too much, just balmy and never-ending. Afternoons, weeks where the rainy days were forgotten because they impinged on that idyllic memory. Afternoons full of gently waving grasses, lazy dancing butterflies that flitted above a child's head as she lay prone, watching the cloud shapes changing into galleons, lions, figures, only to part and rejoin to become magical creatures that had no name save that given by any individual with time on her hands.
Hearing the drone of bees darting here and there, collecting pollen from the wild flowers at the edge of the field, their knee sacs ripe and bulging with yellow treasure for the hive. Listening to the rustle of leaf against leaf, stirred by a warm breeze that wafted between branches of oak, aspen and willow alike.
Remembering the enjoyment of hearing a trickling brook as it sang rippling over a stony bed. Of wondering just where to put a foot on the uneven stepping stones that spanned the distance between one bank and the other; afraid of slipping into the deliciously cool water; of shoes and socks soaking through when that slip became reality; of the laughter that accompanied the fall. Then the sound of mother yelling when she made the sodden discovery of hidden footwear.
The memory of crisp icicles hanging sharp and shear from roof, guttering, door and gate. Feeling cold cheeks turn red and burn as the frost made its presence felt. The tingling as I de-frosted in front of a solid fuel fire. Holding a toasting fork laden with thick slices of white bread in front of the trusty flames. Fingers burning as the browned bread is turned, to crisp on the second side. The sensual spreading of globs of butter. The lathering of home-made strawberry jam from berries gathered in Summer's sunshine, spread like some rich red roof. Biting into that sweetness, savouring its ‘out of season’ taste; the lusciousness of such luxury warming insides; comforting my little hands and body like a sumptuous blanket. Then thawing out, wrapped in a thick wool handmade jumper; the room unlit for now save for the dancing flickers of firelight, the embodiment of cave mentality and its safety therein.
Oh how innocent those days seemed seen from a child's perspective in a time of unrest. The perception that all was well when in fact, all around, the war took its ugly toll. People were crushed as bombed out houses collapsed; streets ran red with fire, burning as incendiary bombs dropped all over a city already crushed but not defeated; jet black nights that became homing beacons for enemy bombers as fires raged throughout cities and towns all over England. Listening to the radio that filled the late afternoon with childrens stories that brought wonder to my ears.
I remember walking up the avenue to the old smithies. The smell of burnt hair filing my nostrils. Sunbeams streamed through the window to like likje gold upon the sleek hair of the horse’s flank. Dust motes hung in the dry air as shiver went through the horse flesh as each shoe was fitted. Heady days to remember. All long gone now.
Time the healer, becomes an enemy as memories grow mixed and separation is harder to acquire as the mind grows older. There are some that keep their clarity until ripe old age or even when death overtakes them, but most find they have a melange from which their memory separates only the good, the nice and changes the time-scale to suit its purpose.
Why does age bring with it infirmity, senility? Will scientists/doctors who endeavour to give us 'more time', ever increase the human life span? And if they do, what will we have to sacrifice in order to enjoy those extra years? Is the allotted life we have never to change? Through several thousand years, individual human beings have gradually lived longer because of changes in lifestyle and diet as some kind of natural evolution has overtaken what we do, what changes we go through, not scientifically altered. Until, that is, medicine evolved, wars produced better ways to kill, and normal lifestyles benefited.
Someone should instil wisdom in us while we are young to "enjoy to the full what we have now, for in 40/60 years we may regret that we did not do more at the time" But as children, as young people, would we ever listen?
So I wait in dread of tomorrow, a changing landscape with a finite end close at hand.

© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. September. 2002
Words 820

Publication Date: 08-27-2011

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