Of Sasha Deane
She may not fit well, she may be bruised even broken, this is her experience. Life is like this, a Bouquet.
Sasha at a glance
My mother fell asleep soon after the midwife cut the cord that hitherto secured me to her. The year, nineteen-sixty-one; the month, December; the hour, twenty-one-forty-five on the twenty-fifth day. Were they good or bad, who can say? The rod was not spared, nor the child spoiled.
Shy, lacking in self-confidence with low self-esteem and no parental support; small and light; an average student, not inclined to study (though in truth, there was zero parental support for this); a loner; the concise me.
When I began university studies, I learned I was a reflective thinker, this helped explain many things.
I married—it seemed the right thing at the time. Our two children added texture to the wedding photographs. In quick succession, two babies were born. Warped and bitter years followed, which were only momentarily interrupted when we emigrated. The anticipated new beginnings handicapped by the bad genes they inherited and, before seventeen months elapsed, my partner flew from our new home permanently.
I completed university studies; a single parent with four children.
As a parent, beginning life in a new country, friends can be hard to come by, with intimate friends seldom being found. I received a phone call one evening. She had a heart attack that afternoon and was in intensive care. By the time I arrived, she was gone. Forty-years-old. Fit—now dead. They had been together since high school, you know. The only man to share her body now joined with another. The revelation—a stone hurled through a window. A heart shattered to destruction.
I left straight after the funeral service. I find myself poorly equipped to manage such graphic distress as witnessed at an event so gross in nature.
I found the internet to be a handy tool. With its help, I located a small cottage on the edge of a sandy beach and secured a twelve-month residence from the two sisters who owned the property. I remember the summer, now, with fondness. Those quiet, contemplative, walks beside the still flowing stream; the general store; the white stucco church; and the home bakery, where I spent many an hour beneath an umbrella-shaded table drinking tea and writing.
When not visiting my grandchildren, I am engaged in a new project. My 4B pencils are sharpish, and the paper, white with graphite etchings.
Sasha Deane