She sat at the kitchen table with a wine glass and all the what ifs, what weres and what could’ve beens floated in the glass and the bread began to rise. She thought about the summer of 1956. But actually it was difficult to picture much more than a blur of an album of photographs. Everyone fading. She heard fleets of conversations. Saw some memory of palm, with fingers inching. Smiled. She hummed the words to Happy Birthday. Smelt chalk and lawns and linen. She felt she felt the world beyond the veil and she frowned.
The clatter of sunlight sabres and shadow on the water. The warhorse in the hollows, rearing in the swell, off the West Pier, on a Sunday morning.
From here, a tired enlightenment accrued, tumbling. An accumulation of thoughts, of laughters, of feelings (like happiness and sorrow) of fears. The knuckles and the kneaded bread; the blend of tears, of wine, of years; of present, of memory. The aroma of the knowledge of now. She toed the floor, tipping glances into it.
She wondered of family. And she wondered if he ever allowed himself the luxury, the luxurious wonder of that past, peculiar dream. It was something that never rose to the surface. It remained beneath glass. The image caused her to suddenly say a word out loud.
She listened to the silence and watched herself in the lively oven glass, held there in glimmer and reflection, a study in soft focus: representation of woman in kitchen. She slipped into that space and withdrew to another time, brought back to the present by the sound of the unseen waves bringing the shingle.
She thought she might go outside and walk the shore. But thought again. There was the loaf to think about, the arrival of Tim (she glanced at the clock and found it, for some moments, not to be moving). Anyway, she realised at last, her boots were in the car, so that settled that.