|A path through the park...|
I'm glad I went.
And forgotten memories of the past.
Wall Street Crash.
Another thing struck me. There was no mention of a father. Could it be that the Rudge that Emily took her name from had died in the Great War, whilst Olive was still a toddler? A heartbreak that was crystallised when her daughter died in the prime of her life. I am of course making presumptions, and these are based on the next name on the gravestone... Henry Smith, who died at the ripe age of 88 on the 25th of November 1945. He'd survived the war and, maybe, left Emily alone with her memories.
The final name on the gravestone was Emily herself. She died on the 25th of December 1964 aged 77. And at this point I cried. I had no idea who she was, but written on this stone was a slice of sad history. I had no idea whether she had other family around her, or if she simply died alone taking any sadness with her.
And there's the strange thing about dates. The 25th is just another day, yet we apply such value to it and, hence, it is an enormous tragedy if anything happens then. But it's a day like any other. The same could be said of that most innocent of days, the 7th of July, or 11th of September. Or even the 8th of May. Empty little blocks of calendar that suddenly acquire momentous meaning.
For Emily the date would have been the 2nd of August. In the same way for my own father there is the pain and joy of the 15th of December, when his youngest child, my brother, was born exactly a year to the day his mother died.