大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War website by a volunteer of the Stoke CSV ACtion Desk on behalf of Arthur Lowe and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Driven by mounting impatience I jumped from the still moving bus and shouldering my Kit Bag began to hurry down our street. Take it easy, I reasoned, slowing my pace for Hell was behind me and I was home. The houses and street had changed little which brought memory of a petite figure waving a silent goodbye to me a lifetime ago. Then, youthful bravado and insensitivity had blinded me to the tears streaking that beloved face.
Again I hurried and was soon banging repeatedly on our front door. A stranger of some sixteen years opened the door.
"Hi Arthur," he said with a huge smile.
I had to see my mum and would brook no delay.
"Let me in kid," I said angrily and pushed past him.
"I'm Norman, your brother," he said hurt and dismayed.
My father greeted me, gone was the tall broad shouldered man of my early schooldays. Now he looked small and old.
"Hello son," he said, shaking with emotion.
"Dad," we hugged.
"Where is Mum?" Emotion, impatience made my tone shaky and irritable for he appeared unaware of my distress.
"Mum is at the cornershop," he replied "she won't be long."
He stopped speaking and a wondrous peace held me still for I felt Mum's presence. Slowly I turned and there stood Mum, wide eyed, motionless. For an eternity we gazed at each other. A flood of emotions washed over me on seeing again my angel. Every day throughout those long years of captivity memories of her had eased my dreadful desperation and given me hope. It was if she was ever at my side. We held each other tight, Mum pulling my head down repeatedly to kiss me. Tears rolled down our cheeks, to me, each one a blessing. Slowly the memory of the soul destroying agony of those years began to recede.
"Mum. Son," were the only words that passed between us.
Not all the prose and poetry I had ever read could do justice to the intensity of love and emotion of those moments. I was home. Heaven was all around me and in my arms.
How great and somtimes unrealised is the sacrifice of their own hopes and dreams that our parents make on our behalf.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.