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Wednesday Afternoons23:28 Apr 03 2010
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Since I was a young child in one form or another I've spent a lot of time around death. Some of my earliest memories are quiet conversations in muted tones, discussions of another life ended, tutting at death before their time and nodding at those who were thought to have lived out their allotted span. Conversations that were always held over tea in delicate cups with matching saucers, and biscuits nicely arranged on paper doily covered plates. I remember how that room had always had a dim gloomy feel, from the long thick curtains that were kept partially closed against the afternoon sun, even on cloudy days.
Those Wednesday afternoons should have been boring to such a small child made to sit quiet and still on a stool, and in many ways they were. Instead of running round, laughing and joking, learning how to make friends and just being a kid. I learnt how to stay silent, disappear into backgrounds and listen.
Much of what was spoken blurred together in my mind, as I would watch the dust motes dancing in the small stream of light that was allowed to peek through. At other times I would sit and watch the elderly wrinkled faces of the two sisters talking, perched like tiny little birds, pecking away at other peoples lives as vultures peck at carrion. Nothing that anyone could do, was too bad or too small to escape mention. But a death seemed to have a spice that they couldn't resist, whether it was because they felt their own mortality or because to their generation talk of death replaced our modern talk of sex, I don't know.
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