What can YOU say in six sentences?
I remember, having woken in the night and gone downstairs to interrupt an evening meal, the hardness of my mother’s face as she said, in front of my grandparents, my aunt and my father ‘Why should I cuddle you? You said you didn’t love me anymore.’*
I remember the surprised delight, on our first date, at realising I could be honest, be me, with this eighteen-year-old man.
I remember a sense of having passed through a portal into a world I had previously been ignorant of within minutes of giving birth to my daughter.
I remember the conviction I had that this house was right for us even before stepping inside, merely by standing with my back to it and looking at the long distance view to the front.
I remember after my mother died my father and I looked at each other, said 'We've not been here before' and thereafter had a much closer and more meaningful relationship than hitherto.
I remember so very little of the thirty-eight years of living in this house, of the forty plus years of my daughter, of the sixty plus years of my life … but what I do remember is that I have been extraordinarily lucky in it.
* [In fairness, I much later realised the hurt embarrassment was hers, the situation (unwelcome in her in-laws house) a horrid one.]