The little journal is old and battered, its pages half-filled with the fond, cursive handwriting of little old Rosie. Filled with her thoughts, her dreams and her hopes, and sometimes with her despairs, though of course there are not so many of those now as there had been in her youth. And on the opening page, in writing completely dissimilar to that of the owner of the diary, is a short message ...."To my lovely Rosie, may you always have somewhere to write about your wonderful life. Your ever loving, George."
And so, the pages are turned, the pen is picked up ....the thoughts begin to flow.
24th July, 2009
Dearest George,
My goodness, how long it has been since I wrote to you! I still have very little to tell, you know. Being old is not all it's cracked up to be. In a way you are so very lucky not to have to endure parts of it. But I know if you were here with me still, I would be the lucky one.
I've finally managed to get myself back to RhyDin, isn't it wonderful? Back to where we met, where we married. So much seems to have changed, and yet, it all seems the same, somehow. I've been in the city itself only one night but I couldn't help wanting to visit the old Inn. That, at least, has not changed, though the people who frequent it have.
Oh, George, if only you could have seen it. The kitchen where we met over dish-washing, the fireplace where your grandmother used to tell her stories ....it's all still there, all still the same. Now I am the grandmother, and no one pays me any mind.
Still it was lovely to see that some folk still retain their manners. There was a charming young lady on the porch with her friends as I went in and out, and unlike a lot of people, she returned my greeting and farewell. So many young people don't bother with the niceties anymore. I can't be certain, but it looked as though her companions were eating eyeballs. As I said, a lot has changed.
Oh, but listen to me ramble on when I've so much to do! I must be getting on. The simplest of tasks seem to take an age these days. My love to you, always, my dearest George. I'll write again soon.
Your ever loving, Rosie.
And so, the pages are turned, the pen is picked up ....the thoughts begin to flow.
24th July, 2009
Dearest George,
My goodness, how long it has been since I wrote to you! I still have very little to tell, you know. Being old is not all it's cracked up to be. In a way you are so very lucky not to have to endure parts of it. But I know if you were here with me still, I would be the lucky one.
I've finally managed to get myself back to RhyDin, isn't it wonderful? Back to where we met, where we married. So much seems to have changed, and yet, it all seems the same, somehow. I've been in the city itself only one night but I couldn't help wanting to visit the old Inn. That, at least, has not changed, though the people who frequent it have.
Oh, George, if only you could have seen it. The kitchen where we met over dish-washing, the fireplace where your grandmother used to tell her stories ....it's all still there, all still the same. Now I am the grandmother, and no one pays me any mind.
Still it was lovely to see that some folk still retain their manners. There was a charming young lady on the porch with her friends as I went in and out, and unlike a lot of people, she returned my greeting and farewell. So many young people don't bother with the niceties anymore. I can't be certain, but it looked as though her companions were eating eyeballs. As I said, a lot has changed.
Oh, but listen to me ramble on when I've so much to do! I must be getting on. The simplest of tasks seem to take an age these days. My love to you, always, my dearest George. I'll write again soon.
Your ever loving, Rosie.