Autumn dusk is hitting its prime.
Walking the dog back home I see lights coming up in the village windows. It brings to mind the ones who inhabited these houses before my time. Their benevolent spirits linger throughout this valley and its hilltops in the many descendants and friends who remember them. I can barely go a week without someone telling me how they were connected to the Wesbrooks, who lived in my house since 1941. Bud, Polly, Luna, Jenepher and Kathleen live on in the stories we hear and retell.
We live on, tending our gardens, sharing the extra tomatoes and zucchini, meeting at the crossroad to chat. We’ve welcomed a brand new baby this month, and he will hear these stories. Because someday it will be us that he’ll remember.
On evenings like this I hum In the Gloaming, as sung by The Story back in the 90s. It was written by Meta Orred in 1877 and adapted to music by Annie Fortescue Harrison.
In the gloaming, oh my darling
When the lights are soft and low
And the quiet shadows, falling,
Softly come and softly go
