Re reading the past

Thinking about the past is an odd thing. I’ve spent the afternoon clearing out a suitcase full of stuff that I moved here with two years ago and have never opened. Lots of letters. I re read many of them. Some lovely, some fun, some frustrating and some upsetting.

I read all the letters my grandpa sent me whilst I was a boarding school for sixth form. I don’t think I’ve read then since. It was lovely to think of him and his struggles with typewriter ribbons and the like! He the wrote the last one days before he died. He was a wonderful man and I still miss him. It has made me wonder if he’d be proud of the person I have become. I hope so. He would be hugely proud of my professional life, and he’d probably adore that I continue to play his fiddle, even though I have a better one, it is his and I love it. Music was his gift to me. He would be disappointed in some of my bad behaviour. He would be sad hat I don’t have a family of my own, but he would be sad for me, rather than being sad that I hadn’t produced great grand kids if that makes sense. He would be sad that my faith has disappeared. He was so pleased when I was confirmed, and wrote to me of the importance of it. He would be glad that I am home and helping my parents while they need it. He was a great friend and a bit of a confidant, something I have lacked with my parents. He would tell me I am like my mother.