By PJ
It is the strangest thing, but I strongly believe that I have lived a past life.
I can’t remember all the details. The memories are a little fuzzy. It feels sometimes as if they are within reach, then in an instant, they fade away, like a light bulb going out and all that is left is the flash of light, retained for a second or two after the lights are turned off.
I sometimes remember a cottage with a lovely little garden.
Children playing and a handsome man pottering about with his secateurs in his hand, pruning the roses.
If I concentrate, I can hear the sound of children’s laughter and smell the soft fragrance of the roses.
Then it’s gone.
I don’t remember exactly where I lived at that time, but I know it was a happy place for me.
It is a comfort though, whether real or not, to know that I was happy once.
Never mind.
Not that I am unhappy now, you understand. Just getting through the days like most of us do as we get older.
I have my own little flat, which is very nice and easy to manage.
There is always plenty of food in for me and any guests that may call.
I don’t eat as much as I did, and my diet is quite limited now.
I like tea and garibaldi biscuits best.
I don’t really cook anymore, too much bother just for me.
I have my books and the radio to keep me company.
I think that I used to have a dog. I seem to remember going on long walks in all kinds of weather.
Not one for walking much now though—bad hips, and I sometimes lose my sense of direction and wander aimlessly until some kind soul helps me to find my way back to the flat.
Never mind.
There is a lovely young man who calls to see me every Saturday, at least I think it’s on a Saturday.
If I don’t tick the days off on my calendar, I forget what day it is.
Days don’t matter much to me now; they are all pretty much the same.
Maybe they were important to me once. I don’t recall.
He calls me “Mum”, which I find quite endearing, not having any children of my own.
He talks a lot about his sister and his own children, and it is nice to hear these stories of his life.
I wonder if his own Mum is still alive and, if so, what she thinks about him spending his Saturday afternoons drinking tea and eating garibaldi biscuits with another old woman.
I tell him he should spend more time with his own mother.
He says that she doesn’t mind, and that he likes to visit with me.
But it must be terribly hard for his own Mum not to see her son.
Glad I didn’t have any children.
I would be so upset if they didn’t come and visit me.
I think he told me his name was John.
I forget.
Never mind.
Nice name for a boy, John.
I like it.
Sometimes he brings an old photograph album, and we look at the pictures.
He tells me who everybody is and asks me if I remember them.
How could I remember when I wasn’t part of his family?
They all look very nice though.
John seems to get upset at this, but for the life of me, I don’t know why.
It’s not as if we are related.
If the weather is good, and if I am feeling up to it, he will sometimes take me for a drive in his car, which makes a nice change for me.
One day he drove past a lovely little cottage with roses in the front garden and said:
“That was our house, Mum. I remember playing in the garden, and Dad would go crazy if me and Sis went near his roses.”
It was a lovely story, and very sweet of him, but it would surely be better if he did this for his real Mum rather than me.
When he leaves, he gives me a peck on the cheek to say goodbye.
I’m not entirely sure that I like this.
Bit too forward for me, yet I suppose that there’s no real harm in it, so I don’t make a fuss.
“See you next Saturday, Mum.”
Then he is away.
One Saturday he brought a lady with him and introduced her as his sister.
I didn’t like her and told him to please not bring her again.
She ran off in a flood of tears, silly mare.
What have I got to do with her anyway?
What does she care?
Never mind.
A very nice lady calls in to see me every day.
Joan, or is it Jean? I forget.
I think she lives in a flat nearby.
She must visit me after work, as she is always wearing a blue uniform when she calls.
I tell her that if her boss finds out that she is in her uniform out of the workplace, she will very likely get into trouble.
She smiles and tells me that he said it is okay with him.
She checks that I have taken my medicine for the day, that everything is all right, and if there is anything else that she can do for me.
There are some lovely people left in the world, but I do keep my jewellery locked in a drawer.
You can’t be too careful.
Before I go to bed tonight, I think I’ll just have a quick look at the photograph album again that the nice young man, James, wasn’t it, left for me to have a look at.
Now if I could only remember my dream of that past life, perhaps all of this would make more sense.
Oh well.
Never mind.
© 2023 PJ
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“Never Mind” by PJ is a poignant and beautifully crafted short story about memory, identity, and the quiet loneliness of ageing. With gentle humour and bittersweet reflection, it explores the shifting nature of time and the fragile connections between past and present.
