I sit naked upon the shelf dusty with age and abandoned.
She grasped the pen with enthusiasm and fevour. Scribbling every word in a hurry. Cobwebs itched her nose as she sneezed and coughed. The old sunroom was quiet, almost eerie.
A writers joy. The tales of time scurried through her veins chasing her pen. Her flow of letters created a story and a pain. Tobacco stains blotted some and erased others but her mind was slow to forget. A flickering bulb kept her company and a few spiders sidled up close. A nest of chirping birds echoed down through the black, unrecognisable fireplace. She shivered in the evening chill. Needing a break she gathered stray timber that lay broken and dry and prepared the grate. As she scrunched up newspapers something caught her eye. "The Days We Knew" dated 1956 it simply said. It was the headline splayed upon the front page that panicked her slightly. "Girl born of Peasant Lady at her dwelling is thought dead." It went on to explain that the Lady had secretly hid her growing stomach and had given birth alone at home but that the baby had dissapeared and was a shut cold case. A queasy feeling engulfed her. Shaking off intruding thoughts she took a match from her breastpocket and struck up a flame to cast upon the timber and paper. A bright flame took and bulit a furnace good enough to warm an army.With a shaky hand she took another match and lit a cigerette. Inhaling the Major singed her lungs but she was elsewhere. Tears welled in her eyes as she recalled the chant that haunted her... "Orphan child.. Orphan child... it's time to go home..." A bitter woman she was fierce in her stance. Thundering through a house she shook walls and pictures fell in fury. The little girl was lost. She felt every word slice open her heart and graze her lifeforce. She was no joy to this demonic woman. Her sweetness was a guise in public but she ruled the roost with a power unknown. I saw sorrow swallowed in her throat as she gave marching orders. I was but a child and she was just like a character in my little leatherbound Annie and Oliver Twist storybooks. I shrunk in her size. Her fists were huge like a mans, seeping anger from her body. Inhaling another cigerette i scribble a silent sorry to myself for her mistakes.The fire was burning bright and my hurt was healing. Words tumbled out and fell on each other exhausted. I curiously reach for that crumpled paper and slowly search it for a clue.Timing coincidental i muse. A flash of recognition in the Ladys face. I open my drawing desk and flick through an album I've long forgotten. Each second that passes is an hour. I find the picture of the Lady I was told to call "Maid". There is an unmistakable resemblance. I curse my childish unknowing as I suddenly know the story all too well. "My Mother" i sigh.How could I have missed that in my face? Furious I hear my heart cry. How dare she enslaven my Mother and abduct her infant! I rip up the paper and confront my past. This day was coming. I felt the secrecy and the injustice. How could I understand the truth and apologise to the woman whom was our slave for so many years? She was now old and had lost her life to the misery of another. In that moment I knew what it was to hate. Yet I knew what it was to love also.