My Sister

I had one important visit to make when I returned.

I went to see my sister, Polly.

I was never close to my sister. In the way of those days, our parents chose different paths for us.

I was sent to a “good” school in England. She travelled with my parents to far places.

My sister is a strong person but modest. She makes small silver objects on commission in her workshop in a small country town.

I think she is pleased I have returned. I can’t be sure.

When I used to talk to her about what I was doing, on the phone or on occasional visits, she would most likely ask: What was the place like? How did the people live?

She was not so interested in the “stories” I was covering.

I thought perhaps that was because my public persona as a reporter took me out of the role of brother, father and uncle. Those roles were very important to her.

For she would always ask about my children, always remember birthdays. She always encouraged the cousins to keep in touch.

I also sensed, which was harder for me to take, that she thought that I didn’t really “do anything”, that I just reported on the activities of others.

Sensing that I resented  it, but there is some truth in it.

When I said I was going to find a house in a village nearby, my sister said: “You’ll find it has changed.”

This village was quite a sociable place. I seemed to be a welcome guest.

Then, later, I began to write the blog, which I call my Journal.


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