The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there – L.P. Hartley

I never really knew her. Was just eight when she died.

But I remember the sadness and yes, I cried.

Now, what is this? She stands before me with her gentle smile.

I don’t know what to say but maybe we can talk awhile.

Maybe I can ask the question that plagued my mother.

Why did you stay with him? When you might have had another?

So, I ask, what can I lose?

Why didn’t you leave Grandpa after all those years?

You might have had a different life.

Were you plagued by doubts and fears?

She laughs outright, something I never heard.

Oh my, she says. It’s all there but you simply don’t see.

Your life is so different from mine.

You might have made the same choices if you had been me.

I remember my brash, rather uncouth grandfather

and shake my head as she begins her tale.

My mother thought I had the perfect marriage, she says.

I’m sure I’ve misheard. Do my ears fail?

John wasn’t an alcoholic–like my father.

And unlike my dad, he didn’t cheat on his wife.

He provided as best he could

and it wasn’t such a bad life.

Didn’t beat me or the kids.

We had clothes to wear and had food on the table.

Of course, he had his own demons

but he worked hard when he was able.

If I had divorced, the children would have gone to him

and I only knew how to cook and clean.

Besides, I would have been a “fallen woman”

and most of the time, he wasn’t mean.

You might not think he was the dream husband

but our marriage wasn’t such a curse.

Life was so much harder then

and things could have been much worse.

Lorraine Jeffery