Jubilation

Dear Heart,
In honour of Queenie's Diamond Jubilee we walked up to the village green to enjoy the fête. There was a brass band playing Auld Lang Syne at the entrance, coconuts and goldfish to be won in games, and a whole corner for crown-making activities. Needless to say, we ate first: lamb burgers and hot dogs in coronation-red sauce.
Mamma Mia was very bad today. When I walked into her bedroom she was sat in her rocking chair, filing a single nail down and down so that she didn't have to get dressed. She wouldn't allow herself to cry, but when I sat down at her feet I could see tension sitting at the corners of her mouth. When we got back from the fête, though, she had hung Union Jacks in the windows and prepared a picnic feast for us. As they say at Downton Abbey, she's a storm-braver, that one.
Dad set up a fire for us in the garden. We sat and toasted marshmallows and sang Ed Sheeran and Adele until wood smoke clung to our clothes. The difficulty came when Chloe requested Camp songs. Now I know why they call it "bittersweet". There was a trembling half of me desperate to sing along to music I've known all my life: I grew up singing these songs. They were the first music I ever learnt harmonies for, the first songs I ever saw Dad play guitar to. But they belong to the Before, and so much has happened in-between that meant that the sore, throbbing part of me just couldn't sing. Mum slipped inside when no one was looking, and I followed a few minutes after.
My fingers ached with cold, but I swept up the sweet wrappers from the feast nevertheless. I thought about words as I did so. Bitter-sweet, heart-ache; that slow, heavy throbbing that pulses through you for something that is past, something that has ended. The ache in having to learn new rhythms, new songs to dance to.
Love, Lydia x