Blog entry verges on being postponed today. Reason; too much vino and conversation from night before. Body battles with over stimulation and like the Montbretia in the tin jug in the window, droops in its alien habitat. I struggle on.
I find a toy soldier out in the bog, buried deep down in the tall wild flowers. The little green man somehow means something to me. Memories of a small boy with blond hair and a bunch of soldiers spread out on the floor and imagined battles being won and after the battles, how the soldier and the imaginings were all tossed into a tin box and put away. Funny how I had forgotten all of this until today, until I found the soldier, covered in soil. I washed him off and now he stands on the window sill in the kitchen with his machine gun firmly held in his green arms.
Bells rang in the garden because of a constant wind but as the day grew old a china blue sky took the place of the grey. Clothes dried on the clothes line and plants were finally purchased to fill the empty holes in the garden. I peeled carrots, purchased from the market and I thought about my mother and how she loved this time of year, vegetables and flowers and cornflowers, blue and deep... and how when she roasted Chicken and took it from the oven to cool, she pulled a chicken wing off for me to taste. Secretly.
Am I a contradiction then that I went and bought a plant of heather for her grave today? Was it because the heather reminded me of a mountain in Connemara? I am not supposed to believe in graves. Yet, I go. I drive through the cemetary. Plots decked out. Visitors with pales faces bend and pray. There is a gravestone on the path to my destination of two children, who were only hours old, when death claimed them. I note that Geraniums are popular plants in graveyards and plastic flowers go for years. Angels made of stone and engravings that say ''I love you and miss you'' appear in abundance. Dying flowers too feature, rotting and decayed and forgotten about and they fill the plots like stale bread in the bread bin. I walk on through death to place a bunch of heathered mountain on my mother's grave. I don't feel grief, not anymore. Only memories now. Good ones. Ones that fill me with warmth and a wealth of a kind. But I do not linger there either. I have done my bit. I head back to the car, there is dinner to be prepared and life to be addressed and people to catch up on but, I don't know why it is, but as I drive away that toy soldier keeps ringing in my head.