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| Next | Back | Home | Fiction | Non-Fiction | Poems | Book Excerpts | "Lilly" Non-fiction by Lynne Cannon Lilly, lonely, spent all of her time sitting next to her window.
Watching children play. And the world goes by. Some days, Lilly must
have felt particularly alone. In search of company a voice to hear. She
would beckon us, call us away from our games. Through an old black
rickety door. No one minded too much. Lily was kind her love of children
obvious. By her kind words. Lilly opened conversations, commenting on
the weather. "Ooh, isn’t it chilly, wrap up warm". Or
"what a lovely day." Lilly did not need to find excuses, we
liked Lilly. She may have imagined an old woman’s ramblings were the last thing
easily bored children would want to hear. Nothing could be further from
the truth. Her tales enthralled us; stories spoken first hand held our
attention for hours on end. Childhood memories from when the world was a
very different place. Hardships of war, loss. No one could argue that
these where the most inspiring of history lessons. A favorite excuse to
acquire our attentions "a few messages please, from the shop".
Always asking for the same items. Lilly’s cupboards must have been
bulging with ‘loose tea’, ‘OXO cubes’ and tins of ‘garden
peas’.
Stepping inside Lilly’s home was a visit into the past. An old
black, iron stove was the source of heat. A place to boil a kettle, warm
a pan. Old ‘gas light’ fittings hung on her walls, though obsolete.
Damp but cozy, the house felt alive with memories. Birth, and death. Joy
and sorrow. A huge, heavy old table sat in the middle of her sitting
room. Covered by an old gingham cloth. A brown china teapot permanently
placed. Well used, always at the ready. A clock hung over the fireplace.
Chiming, faithfully at every hour’s completion. Sturdy cupboards
polished daily. Filled with old tea and biscuit tins, crammed with
everything imaginable. Each visit to the corner shop was rewarded with a
crumpled paper bag, half empty. Mint imperials, predictably.
Lilly told us of when as a young woman, her beloved never returned.
Lost in war, never to share her life. No other man had been able to
compare. In her mind, her lover was unchanged. From the day they said
farewell. Still nineteen, tall and handsome. Eagerly planning their life
together. His broken body laid in France. No grave to tend, kept his
memory alive, no good-byes. With no one left, friends and family all
gone. Her memories were all she had left. Her only pleasure was to
share them.
Lynne Cannon, contact: kmlcannon@ic24.net
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