Imagine standing behind the glass of a window, your breath coating it with its layer of mist. You watch the fizz trails of fireworks against the pale black sky. Even the small ones leave a mark to trace with a finger, drawing faint lines in the mist.
We all leave our marks in the world, no matter how small; or who is standing there to see them.
Irina never got to be a mother; although there were seven babies, now small stones she keeps in a tin; one for each life that was and now isn’t. Her insides broken by what they did to her in that dark place in Germany.
It was George who stood at the window and watched the fireworks scream. George, who had been with her since Belsen. They knew Irina was dying; they knew it was coming. November 5th 1997. George just didn’t know there would be fireworks. As he held her he’d watched through the gap in the curtain. Later stood at the window drawing circles in the mist. Now it was Irina who was here and then she wasn’t.
But we all leave our mark; even fictitious characters. Some we remember for the loudness of their imprint: Atticus Finch, Elizabeth Bennett, Madame Bovary, Miss Marple, Jane Eyre, Tom Sawyer… and maybe, one day George and Irina Beletsky, who came from Russia at the end of the war and tried to be British. They tried to leave their mark in East London.
My new work in progress… Chutney.
Even small fireworks leave their mark.
Have a great day everyone.