Almanzora - A short story written by Berni Albrighton

                                                                        

                                         

                                                       Almanzora

I had planned a mini road trip to Almanzora thinking it would do us good 

to spend time together, away from his Mother.

She had moved in 5 months ago and our home was no longer 

our sanctuary. Instead it felt like a war zone. 

A carer was staying while we were away and Mother complained so 

much we almost cancelled the trip. Now, as the carer waved us off 

with assurances that everything would be fine, I relaxed a little.

Conversation between us was strained, it had been for some weeks. 

Martin insisted on driving, probably so he didn’t have to make small talk.

I sat back, taking in the scenery. 

We were stopping at Fines for a late breakfast. As we entered the 

town the powerful image of Freedom rose in front of us. 

The towering marble woman, created in homage to female victims 

of violence, stood skyward, valiant, unwavering.

I began to question myself. How could I let Martins Mother cause so 

much disruption? Haven’t I always been able to stand up for myself? 

This sculpture represented women who had experienced violence, 

abuse, fear. 

I had let myself be bullied by a 92 year old. 

I suddenly felt ridiculous and decided that things with Mother would 

change.

After breakfast we explored the town. Martin was keen to learn 

more about the marble and limestone as his father had been a 

stonemason, whilst I, with my degree in history, was fascinated by 

tales of discovered artifacts dating back to the Bronze Age.

From Fines we drove to Olula Del Rio. Its art gallery was showing 

a collection of Rembrandt. I loved the richness and indulgence of 

Old Masters style of painting.

Outside the gallery is the ‘Woman of Almanzora’ marble sculpture. 

The simplicity of it touched me deeply. 

It had been built in recognition of the women of Almanzora. 

Well that was me now. 

I lived here too. 

I was a woman of Almanzora. 

I wasn’t alone in my battle.

We spent the last couple of days walking in the Seron countryside 

where we visited the protected1300 year old Oak tree. It was sad to 

see this proud tree being propped up by steel girders in a last 

desperate attempt to stop it from toppling. 

Then it was time to make our way home.

Martin had been reluctant to talk about his Mothers behaviour and 

cautioned me about how I approached the subject with her. 

This wasn’t going to be easy.

Stepping into the house the smell of her perfume hit me. 

She was sitting in her usual chair and hadn’t heard us come in. 

She looked small and frail. 

In that moment I saw her life.

Her partner of 65 years had died.

She had no home to call her own.

Her life as she knew it was no more.

Her only wish was that she would not wake up in the morning.

Was it any wonder she was angry.

She only wanted one thing.

Freedom.