Here’s a short Tuesday teaser from my next book,
‘She was fond of calling it her last lap, every year, every birthday. Until, it reached this point. Like a wipe clean of a hard drive, she no longer remembers much of anything. Her thoughts are a scatter of punctuated facts and gaping blanks. Any effort to jolt memory ends in tears and confusion. Cake. Ice-cream. Those are the favourites that bring a smile. Periods of lucidity jump sometimes out of nowhere before disappearing like muttering ghosts. Moments rarely comfort. When she talks about her childhood in Barbados. About milking cows, tending sheep to pasture, cutting down coconut or breadfruit, her mother, my grandmother, about cricket, carnival, rum, dominoes and cards, about fish market and church come Sunday. I grab my phone and start writing. It doesn’t matter most actors in this play are long gone and there’s no way of verifying any of her stories. But it feels precious, precious to me. Even the people and some of the places I’ve not known still strengthen. They make me feel rooted, as if I came from ‘something‘. Something bigger, stronger. So that when I step from the clinic into the light of day, onto the cold streets of London; I can deal with the nothingness and desperation festering a gaping wound at my core. Every life has a season. Like my love life, I need something to fill this next one. A life after, so to speak. A new chapter.
That said, this is what happened next.’
Green’s Confessions © L.S. Bergman 2022 (Unedited)