I am a stranger but listen to me.


I am a stranger but listen to me.

My son caught me late one night; sprawled on the kitchen floor.

My face wet from crying, and a stammering lips.

It’s easier to look at a stranger with a husky tone of “Good morning”

Welling from emotions. It is easier.

But not your son.

So I stood, grinned widely despite my bleeding.

I chased him through the garden as he ran through

Falling on the earth, eating the flowers.

He was happy. I was dizzy.

I picked a brush to paint my heart.

There’s a hole, my son points.

I mumble about oddities, my mistakes and the past.

I fill it with a pool of excuses, colours of sepia.

There’s still a hole,  he says.

I was dizzy again, what paint was I missing?

I stumble to his room, a nest of toys, a quagmire of joy..

There are other ways to be happy, I rebuke.

Read a book.

Why aren’t you trying it? he says.

I know. I’m teetering on the edge of everything.

Join the discussion