I will obviously never know, and it would be paradoxical, but I guess her wish, maybe just a beginnings of one aged 15, was to in fact leave, eventually. This cannot detract one bit from the honest and poetic description of the town of her birth – classic, small-town America, population in 2010 still modest at 662 – but my mother did move away to an eventful life, filled with personal trials as well as ultimately moving afar completely to Europe and taking charge of her family – myself and three sisters – for those journeys and the number of moves and that forever distance from home, until returning to the West Coast where she was at least near to her daughters, my sisters: me deciding to return to and stay in England.

Although I was always aware of my mother’s love of writing in her many letters to me when we were apart, as well as her journals about travels and living abroad, it is only more recently I have become to appreciate her urge to write, and to write well. I’d like to think in the nature/nurture dichotomy, this latter does apply to however I have been able to follow in her footsteps.