I started at the primary school, looking into the window where he began school at five years of age. Elsie sat next to him that morning. She cried all day. He ignored her.
On past the school to the shops. Two are still there. The newsagents where his mum bought him his first plastic farm animals. And the chip shop- fish and chips on a Friday night.
Down the back streets, past the allotments, past where he fell off his bike. And there it is, home - Milford Avenue, Flixton, Manchester. The house he lived in from early childhood to age eight. Not much has changed. A new fence on the side. The paint is a different colour.
It’s the first time I have walked those streets in forty-eight years. All sorts of memories came flooding back. Running through the streets with my friends. Stopping pretty much anywhere, in any house, to ask for a drink of orange squash. Community was strong there. Sad memories too. I found myself grieving for the loss of my mum. It was her hand I held as I walked those streets all those years ago.
The path has taken many a turn from Milford Avenue. Birmingham, Leicester, South London, Crawley, Peterborough. And I’ve been grateful for every step. Grateful to God. Grateful to my friends and family who have shared the journey. If you are reading this as someone who has journeyed with me, thank you for your company.
And there’s more. There’s a path ahead. I can’t see where it leads, but like the days of my early childhood, I hold a hand. No longer my mum’s hand, but my Lord’s. He treads every step with me. He can see what I cannot. He knows every rock and boulder we need to negotiate. He leads, I follow. One day we will reach home together.
