During the war I visit some relations in the country. The privations of living
for years in a battle zone have hit them hard, and although the war is nearly
over they remain locked into the habits of the frightened.
After a frugal meal
of potato soup, I am invited to look round the smallholding that surrounds
their scarred house. Oddly, in each paddock is a smaller fenced area,
sometimes one, sometimes five or six. Puzzled, I ask why they are there.
reason is simple; each small fenced area represents an animal that has long
been eaten. The fences are there to remind my relatives of the livestock they
once had. I peer closer, and on each there is a small label - goat, horse,
cow. Numbly shaking my head, I walk back to the house.
We speak in hushed
tones, discussing the war and the friends we have lost. As dusk falls, a
single candle is lit.
The world outside is almost silent, and I have an eerie
feeling that we are drifting alone, surrounded by sussurating space.