Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

My Two Fathers Are Watching

He towered over the troubled child,

virtuous, virgin of hope,

a child,

ripped from a child herself.

Messy when she fingerpaints,

messy when she scribbled words that would one day become whole worlds,

messy when she tried to climb the kitchen cabinets for biscuits before dinner,

his very own Macarena.

He had such hope for her,

unable to see her human failings,

and how he’d feel about them,

because a father’s love is beautifully blind,

and she was fantastically flawed,

in a way he would learn to love,

once the disappointment dimmed.

Now,

he still towers over her,

watching from God’s garden as his cherished child fingerpaints herself into futile corner after futile corner.

Posted in Writing, Blog, Creative Writing

The Girl’s Madness – Part One

I meet the eyes of my mother less and less,

because of my envy, that I could never get past,

and the fear that I will pass the point of being her pride and joy, disappearing into her disappointment.

My body is a clam that longs for a pearl,

passed over by the unkind sea,

that never saw fit to find me worthy of motherhood.

I don’t know that I’d be any good.

Children smile at me.

Children stare at me on buses,

but I’m sure it takes much more than that,

to make some cells into a success,

and maybe I just want a child in the way that a child wants an imaginary friend?

I want to pretend that I am not hurtling through the human experience with nobody to matter to.

I want to pretend that when I am gone, an echo of me will remain, growing stronger and louder every day.

I want to pretend that someone will need me, or miss me, or love me.

I want to pretend that my body is not full of poison and could produce something perfect.

I want to pretend that every well meaning but quite presumptuous person who told me that I would be a good mother was right.

I want to pretend I could give up smoking for a whole nine months.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Adam Was a Good Baby

There is so much that nobody tells you about being a mother. It’s so easy to fill a book with helpful tips about how to keep a house sterile, why breast is best, which classical artist to play to your child if you want them to get into a good university. I read them all, of course. Spending hours on the sofa, at the behest of my swollen ankles, scrolling through mumsnet on my phone, as if I was cramming for an exam I had forgotten was on the way. I sang a chorus of “Support the neck. Support the neck.” to myself with every spare moment I found, hoping that I could wish my own natural clumsiness away, in time for my due date. I never really felt prepared, even after reading every book, and every post, but I managed.

When I saw Adam, I knew that none of those books or well meaning forum posts could have shown me what I finally understood. He was so powerful, for one so small. My tiny titan, placed in my arms and instantly renewing the strength I had exhausted bringing him into the world. All at once, I was overwhelmed with how deeply I loved him, babbling incoherently about all the ways he completed me, as I wept into his soft skin. Even now, I can see his impossibly small fingers, furiously reaching for my tear stained face, with a gentle curiousity. I knew from that moment, that I would do anything in the world to keep him safe.

Adam was a good baby. He never cried, spending most of his time smiling up at me, as if to thank me for protecting him from the dangers of the world. I was glad of my rushed revision in the first few months, constantly cleaning and baby proofing everywhere I could reach, so that he would be safe. I even played him Mozart, just in case. Each day, I watched him grow, fighting the urge to will him back inside my womb so that he would be safe, I tried to enjoy watching him experience the world around him.

I would watch him sleep, until I passed out, waking up the next day to his soft sapphire eyes gazing at me from behind the bars of his cot, as the city awoke outside the window, still dressed in the darkness of the night, as the sun struggled to rise. I always kept the window shut, because as beautiful as London was, the air was exhausting to my adult lungs, so the thought of what they could do to my baby terrified me. I found myself terrified of things I’d never considered a threat before, and I suppose she crept in through my constant nightmares about unleashed dogs and uncovered plug sockets.

I first saw my mother by the window. It was five AM. I thought my tired eyes were deceiving me, at first, jumping slightly at the sight of her, before clutching my son to my chest, closing my eyes in the hopes that she would vanish. She was still there as I opened them, just staring over at us, her eyes focused as she smiled softly. I glanced at the blood red robes, her fingertips drumming against her legs in an almost hypnotic melody, but my eyes always returned to hers, and how hungry they were as she continued staring, eagle eyed at me and my baby.

“The darkness is coming, April.” Adam began to fuss in my arms, as if he was drawn to her voice, I could feel tears forming in my eyes, as fear forced itself upon me. “You have to come back to The Garden.”

I shook my head, but I knew in my heart, I could never refuse her. My whole body was on edge, buzzing and screaming, as I held my son so close, I could feel his heart beat.

“We need the boy, April.” My mother’s voice was a growl. “You always knew we would be taking the boy.” I could hear her footsteps, across the room, knowing I had no other choice, but wishing so desperately that I did.

“His name is Adam.” I had tried to scream the words, but they were frightened sobs, my fear betraying the attempts I had made to be brave. Adam’s eyes burned into me, so curious and innocent, not knowing what would await him. “Adam.” I felt my Mother’s cold fingers on mine, tears landing on my son, as she prised him from my arms.

“We have to give her the boy, April.” I held on a little longer, wordlessly pleading, trying to find her eyes, to appeal to her own maternal instinct, but knowing I never could. “She needs his soul.”

I let her take my baby. I don’t know why. After all, I knew the fate that awaited him, and I loved him, more than I had ever loved another, but I let my mother take him.

Adam was a good baby. He never cried. Not even when he was sacrificed to the goddess.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Julian Was Coming To Visit

Glassy eyes,

against the glass,

of the garden facing window.

Day is done,

dinner,

unfulfilling,

clock ticking,

then snailing.

I hold a picture of him,

beside my beating heart,

that breaks,

with every minute.

Time snakes,

snailing,

hope hounded,

but prevailing,

because he could arrive,

at any minute.

Life is a surprise,

if you let it be.

Nurses collide,

whispering in the doorway,

about how he phoned,

how he’s sorry,

how he’s busy,

how they should tell me.

His picture,

pierces my heart,

until it is shattered and silent,

but I keep on living,

alone,

antique,

that he keeps,

in an expensive cupboard,

until he can collect his inheritance.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Happy Home

I imagine,

I was an adequate early birthday present,

to my mother.

Materialising,

entering the air,

with a solo scream,

I became a socialite.

Infant it girl,

the name on so many lips,

the day that I debuted,

inside so many arms,

I stared into so many faces,

amazed,

that they are so amazed.

As I grow,

I go from object of awe,

to disappointment,

and back again,

but I am always forgiven.

I am always fortunate,

birthday,

or not,

by the gifts that she gives me.

My mother is a map,

that I have unknowingly navigated,

for every day,

since my debut.

I see similar pictures,

growing stronger

in the glass of my bathroom mirror.