Going Home

Rita McLaren

Alighting from the four by four, we pulled our warm jackets tightly around us, protecting ourselves against the chill November weather, ready for the walk across the field to our goal the banks of the small loch beyond.

We were here, four siblings from a family of five, in the village where we had all been born, the area, redolent of childhood memories. Memories and voices echoing from days long past - our Mother, anxiously calling from the door of our home which stood and still stands at the edge of the field we had just crossed, calling to us to come indoors before darkness fell. Many a well deserved whack on the backside we got when we chose to ignore her calls and play longer. Special memories, as we reached the loch where, in summer, we learned to swim and where, in winter, in deep snow, we sledged down a high embankment, straight on to the ice covering the loch - free, happy and innocent of any danger. This place would always be home to us, this was where we had been surrounded by relatives and friends, where we had shared laughter and tears through good times and bad. ... (continues)