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They treated me very well. Mrs. Foster was happy to cook and clean for the family every day while Mr. Foster, now retired, sat around reading his newspaper and smoking his pipe. I sat all day long on the sofa devouring novels I had brought over from Europe. We made quite the old-fashioned family in many ways, but I knew it couldn’t last forever. Today was Christmas day. Mrs. Foster had invited a couple to dinner that she and Mr. Foster had known for many years, and a friend that they called Uncle Joe. Joe wasn’t really an uncle, at least not to them. He was Mrs. Foster’s sister’s boyfriend, although many years younger than her, and he had been coming to Christmas dinner for the last eight or nine years since Mrs. Foster’s sister, Mary, had died in a tragic accident on a ski lift. I had met Joe once before while we were touring the region. He lived in an isolated cabin on the side of a nearby mountain. We had stopped at his place for a couple of hours for refreshments and he had asked. No longer sleeping in your bed the realisation dawns. You lay on cushions, comfortably reclined, a rug on the floor beneath you, the stars showing in the velvet sky above. A distant fire burns low; the vast room bathed in its faint glow, shadows barely playing on the far walls and ceiling. Your attention is momentarily caught by the mesmerising flames, licking upwards – hot, golden hues of red, white, orange – then your gaze captured by the sillouette of a woman to one side. She sits on a chair of simple design; carved armrests but without a back. Her awareness is taken by her work as it is obvious to you that she writes. Discerning the shape of a small oil lamp to your left you reach down and turn up the flame. Withdrawing your hand the space around you is now gently illuminated. You blink. Approaching her silently she appears not to notice your presence and the only sound to be heard is the scratch of the quill as she writes in graceful yet strong handwriting. Writing with her.
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