Feeling at Home

These were the dreams we once shared. They do not amount to that much with the years packed in boxes, waiting for time to come and take them away. It was a life I didn't really expect and, although Mary said she was happy, sometimes I saw her looking around herself, especially in the latter years, as though she was trying to make sense of how she'd got there.

I don't think I ever wanted to be anything: a doctor, train driver, or anything like that. I even knew quite young that I would never be a professional footballer, or any good at any of the other sports. A few years later, my dusty guitar with the broken top E string told me I'd never be a rock star either.

None of it bothered me that much. I went out to work and the promotions came, seemingly in arbitrary stages, until I wound up here sitting in the manager's chair. Somehow or other the company survived all the various recessions, booms and slumps and I prospered without really knowing what I was doing that kept the place going. In the end I put it down to just not making stupid mistakes.

Mary had a few jobs, none when the kids were young and all we could afford was a week maybe two in a caravan in Wales, then part-time jobs when she was older and we didn't need the money. I think she did it more for companionship, to get out from being alone with herself. Like I said before, sometimes I would see her just sitting there, her book forgotten in her lap; as if she was wondering how she'd ended up here.

Of course, I wanted to make it right for her, especially towards the end. But, like us finally getting a comfortable life and standard of living, I was too late. Not long after we'd moved in her, to this what Mary called 'our dream home' she was diagnosed and a few months later she was gone.

Now, all I know is I can't live here any more and I'm not sure if I will ever feel at home anywhere ever again without her.