Torticollis
A sudden crick of the neck and I am back in the chalet at Perines with Trini.
“Torticollis,” she says, raising a hand to her neck, except she says it in Spanish, ‘tortículis’.
She offers me tea, very English, from the Wedgewood tea pot I brought her, all those years ago. Beside her, the Pirate with the Parrot on his Shoulder, my Toby Jug, still stands on guard, and protects my memories.
Orphaned, I was, from England, abandoned on that Spanish shore, and left there all summer to learn the language. Trini taught me how to eat, speak, choose my books and my friends … she had lost a son, same age as me, just after the Civil War, and treated me like her son, returned, like the Prodigal Son I was to all who had sent me away from home to improve my lifestyle and my manners.
Wanted? Unwanted by my family? I wouldn’t know the difference.
In that far-of land, in time and space, I only knew the loneliness of being lost, marooned in a foreign land, feeling my way, day by day, among foreigners, still foreign, although they took me into their homes and hearts and loved me as I had never been loved before.
Back home, drowsing at the kitchen table, I doze into my dreams, only to be woken by that beloved voice.
Wistful, I turn my head and glance backwards into that past of sunshine and beaches, where the sun sparkled on hill, sand, and sea and the table cloth was spread on the family table, pure and white, with a dozen of us sitting, talking, smiling, drinking wine, that bottled sunshine that still adorns my dining room table.
“Trini? Is that you?”
Her name slips from my lips as I snap my head towards her voice. As I turn, I twist my neck and raising my hand to the sudden pain, I hear again that word: “¡Tortículis!”
rogermoorepoet 
Sweet memories give always pain but sometime motivation.these all r depended on man,dear roger!!
LikeLiked by 1 person
To learn another language is to enter another culture. There is the birth mother, and then there is the cultural birth mother, the one who allows you to enter that new phase of your being.
LikeLike
Real mother n caretaker mother is same.u know dt in mewar state(15-16century) panna had sacrificed her own child to save prince udaysingh because she was prince’s nanny(care taker).u tell about dt is belogend from luck.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are right … I have been doubly and triply blessed with people who have looked after me and introduced me into their lives.
LikeLike
Oh.yeah.u r fully blessed,dear roger!!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Dear moor!!u r lucky.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Indeed I am … I also have you as a friend and a correspondent … I am doubly blessed.
LikeLike
Yeah.thanks for appreciation.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pain recalling pain. A telling reminiscence, Roger, so well expressed.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Roland. The episodes around my original stays in Spain are well worth writing abut. A goldmine for reminiscences. I’ll have to get on with it. Thanks for visiting.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This leaves me satisfied with the scene and still wanting more…
sign of a good piece of writing!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Taya. And you’re right: there’s so much more to tell. Fine and sunny here and I am writing on the front porch. Our provincial holiday today: New Brunswick Day!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Have a wonderful day, Roger!
LikeLiked by 1 person