Memories are made of this

I wish you'd been there in spirit my beautiful long ago dad, to stop in its dirty tracks the steam train which carried our step-father into our world, made it perhaps thunder and rock on its journey to stop in the dark on a station where we wouldn't be seen. I don't really mind where it had stopped; perhaps you could have cast everything back to the time when he wrote that first pen-friend letter to our beautiful mum, who thought this blind man could bring love back into the gap that had been sadly there when you went on your journey called heaven. Or perhaps the stepbrother, who went onto abuse me when I had taken a toy for his new little baby round; but no-one believed what had happened as after all don't all little girls with their bright shiny girls construct the most terrible stories.
When in fact I didn't know what sexual abuse was but just told what happened through the pain and the loss to those who should have been there for me.

It was after you died in September or was it October the wheels set in motion for the commotion that came on that steam train that had first stopped at Kettering; where exited families gathered from miles around to have a day at Wicksteeds Park. That was a lovely thing Charles Wicksteed had done when he'd left in his will acres of ground. It was there that families with pennies to spend could walk in the grounds or zoom down the slide whilst mum's with their bags sat on the soft smooth grass till theclock on the pavillion wall struck one.