There is a certain curve of a well-traveled road that even now occasionally fills my dreams. Years go by and I forget all about it, but then it appears again, and always strangely comforting. Four years ago while driving through a village in Suffolk, I found it: recognising it immediately, I knew exactly where I was.
How many times had I cycled past this curve on warm, summer days on my way to school a couple of miles from where I lived? Or watched it pass by as I observed it through the fogged up windows of the bus on stark, winter mornings? More than once I had trudged through snow drifts piled deep along its verge, my only way home when the bus didn’t stop, or show up at all.
A remnant of the girl I was still lives there. Beyond the curve lie open fields and the promise of places far away, of a life that filled her day dreams. She didn’t know it then, but one day she would see that she was stronger than anyone gave her credit for.
Long before she crossed the shining sea, before she lavished her children yet to be born with the love that overflowed from her heart to theirs, she pondered her days in the lonely hours. She watched silently as the brown field caught fire, burnished with the kiss of an early sunset as tears drenched her pale cheeks. In the deepest silence of the natural beauty surrounding her she found solace, and the reprieve she dreamed of.
It was at these times that she knew her life would never be the same, from the time of that very first betrayal. Yet she knew she would survive.
Because she was strong and she never stopped dreaming.