I saw her once – in person. A proud mother I thought, she stood calm and tall with such an open and steady face. I am drawn to use the word resolute, but it needs a softer word than that. She listened to speakers and clapped at the end. Eyes, mouth… as if every sense utterly aware of every thing, every nuance, as if there was anything she did, did well, it was to feel, to feel all, and to know all. To have to accept all? What horror. Those eyes that have seen. Knowing what was done to her boy.
The Julian calendar. That antiquated thing? Was it so imprecise? Is it so outmoded? It is reckoned that its faults caused our horological measurements to be incorrect by about three days every four centuries. But no calendar is precise. We divide up time as best we can and then continue to tell our stories, filling the hours while the world spins off through the solar system. I hear the Julian calendar is still used by the Berber people of North Africa, and on Mount Athos, and maybe by occasional journalists who have not forgotten the fables of yesteryear – or yesterday.