ABSTRACT
When my boat comes in we’ll have some of those pink fondant sweets with the hazelnuts on top.1
At the kitchen table, stories of the past, the living and the dead, were told and retold. The telling was a remembering, and a reminiscing. Unwelcome beginnings and lost childhoods, the sacrices, and the getting by the best you can. Stories of worlds that had passed leaving only their memories and their wounds. And sometimes, that awful wishing, that maybe, if things could have been dierent. And the rest – it was all the bits and pieces that make up all lives. Perhaps it was a way many people went over and collected up those strange fragments that had been, and were their lives, and from the telling made a recognizable story, one they could see themselves in, and live with.
