When I was a child occasionally somebody, usually my father, would say Family Love, which was the signal for the four of us to make a circle, facing inwards with arms around one another and say a long drawn out Aaaah for the space, at least, that our breath lasted. Our different voices merging together it was a simple and wonderful thing, full of love, security and affirmation. Where did that come from? I asked. He thought his own parents but we both found it hard to picture my grandfather in that domestic scenario. Perhaps it was you and granny, I said. Perhaps. Or, he said, reconsidering. Perhaps we just started it ourselves. I considered myself fortunate.
The idea of love, extended reminded me that when they were very little I used to ask my sons who for them was in our family. For years after she left they included 'Tiggy' the marvellous (so much more than) au pair who lived with us for about nine months and came back to see us twice afterwards. Tiggy was so loved and appreciated that she was truly part of the family. The youngest, who was a baby and toddler when she was here was at least as insistent in this as his older brother.
The day after I wrote this the children came home with fingerprint family trees. There was no Tiggy in the family any more. That is understandable because since starting a life in her own country with a boyfriend, a dog and working in a children's outdoor nursery have not seen her in several years.
- Do you remember when you included Tiggy in our family? I asked the elder.
- Yes
- Is it different now just because we haven’t seen her for a long time?
- Yes, he said, factually though maybe not without regret.
On the trees, one child included his aunt and uncle in remote Manchester, one did not. Neither child included the adored baby cousins born in June whom they saw twice in the summer holidays. Are your [much loved] uncle and aunt not in the family? I asked one, curiously rather than accusing. They are, he said, sheepishly. There just wasn’t room.
I asked the younger why the babies were not in the tree, but their parents were. He hesitated. "Is it maybe because they live far away or are so new?', I asked. "So new" he said. "When would they be big enough to be included?" I asked. After New Year he said, happily and decisively. "Is that because it's the right time of year or just because they'll be bigger then?" I said, still curious. "They'll be bigger then." He said. "Ah", I said. "When they can sit up maybe." "Yes", he said, clearly. "When they can sit up. And..." he said, going down the stairs, "I was running out of room..."
I asked the younger why the babies were not in the tree, but their parents were. He hesitated. "Is it maybe because they live far away or are so new?', I asked. "So new" he said. "When would they be big enough to be included?" I asked. After New Year he said, happily and decisively. "Is that because it's the right time of year or just because they'll be bigger then?" I said, still curious. "They'll be bigger then." He said. "Ah", I said. "When they can sit up maybe." "Yes", he said, clearly. "When they can sit up. And..." he said, going down the stairs, "I was running out of room..."
Memory fades, people change and love shifts emphasis but that is why photographs, if they are 'things' at at all, must be among the most precious.
