November

I am walking through mists and memory.

It is early Saturday morning and I walk through the grey, wraiths of cloud.

November is a month of remembrance. Remembrance of war and its terrible losses and of my Father landing in D-Day and of my mother serving in the British Auxiliary Territorial Service.

Remembrance of our youngest brother, Timothy, born November 22nd, who died almost seven years ago.

I am caught by a bird call, I stop and look to the trunk of the tree just inches from me. A white-breasted nuthatch sits and talks at me, pivots its head to look at me.

Banff is a long way from family and friends and Banff is closer to Timothy.

I walk and walk.