by Daryn Davies

Created on: December 17, 2008

IN THE SHADOW OF THE SHAFT

My life is meandering to a sad and definite close. As I sit here in my favourite armchair the rain dances on the windowsill. I know every rotten crevice in its frame. I should, for I sit here every day looking through this opaque window, memories flooding back like some overburdened river ready to burst it's banks. These memories are perpetually haunting, forever in black and white..just like that fateful day.

We grew up as neighbours. My late father was a miner, as were most of the men in this community. His father was a miner also, a true gentleman, who delighted in the joys of being with his family. However, we all knew about the dangers of working in the mines, but that is all we had. Food and clothing were necessities of life; thus the risks had to be put to one side.

As I sit here today alone I reflect on the neighbourly community which once existed here. Doors were always open, everyone had a smile on their face, and although life was hard, it was always full of vitality. Now those happy times seem to be lost forever, as I sit here with my doors firmly bolted, with the advice of the local, "Neighbourhood Watch", providing a timely counterpoint to those by gone days.

We married in 1932, happy days indeed! The whole community came together. It was such a simple affair, but we were so looking forward to being together, raising a family and spending the rest of our lives together. The sun shone so brightly on that day, I was so happy. All we wanted was to be together forever.

We lived with my brother and his family, unable to afford a place of our own to start with, but we were determined to find somewhere to raise a family. He loved his garden, and when we moved into this house he was joyous, the garden was his Eden. For it had enough space to grow endless amounts of vegetables and flowers. He spent many an hour in his garden, for it was his pride and joy. It was a real community affair; the produce was shared amongst family and friends. We were so happy.

Happiness always ends though. My mourning days will never cease, how could they? A story requires a full stop to signify closure. Only eleven bodies were recovered, the earth has yet to yield the remaining corpses. My gravestone has yet to be inscribed, like a blank canvas waiting for the artist to make his first tentative stroke. Thus, I have to sit here year after year, imagining what kind of stone I would like. I must have drafted his obituary in my mind a thousand times, but it

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