The A to Z Challenge has come to an end, and after all that talk about writing, it is time I was reading this post “Books that I wish had changed my life“, and I began to wonder about books that may or may not have changed mine. (Look up this guy’s list in the…
Mum says it is evil to steal.
Sure, the first time you try it, you go Gawd I can’t do this, but then you’ve picked it up and chucked it in your handbag, your fingers shoved into your pockets to keep them from trembling, blood singing in your ears as you wait for the alarms to squeal on you, and then you’re out, striding out into the daylight, and they tell you they’d cut the tags out for you and ask you how you feel, and you tell them you’re doing great, just awesome. You want to do it again.
I sit on me front porch, thinkin’ Sunday morning thoughts, when they drive up, the two fat coppers.
Where’s Moses?, the taller of the two hook his finger on his belt, and don’t waste our time.
Only Moses I know, I tell them, parted the Red Sea.
No punchin’ the toadstool around me. Moses he turn me ‘to a fairy if I squeal. Better put out for coppers than Moses.
My nose bust next second, one long whine in me ears, blood on me mouth, warm ‘n icky. Usual stuff.
She woke up to his pictures on Facebook. Not on her timeline, you understand, but a stranger’s, a woman she’d met at a party the night before, her latest Facebook friend.
He’d put on weight. Flecks of grey and white had touched his hair. His smile, though. His smile looked the same. Or did it?
Her fingers traced the screen. If only she could enter it, stand beside him, hold his arm as he smiled at the camera, lay her head on the suit that hugged his shoulders.
Could she once again be the reason he smiled, just like she once was on that spring morning when his fingers had combed her curls, played with her dinner clothes, taken them off, letting his fingers and hands and the sun warm her? They had danced and sung and chugged down wine all night. What day was that, the day after a friend’s wedding, or Fourth of July? That day when all seemed hazy, only them, their bodies, had a certain ripe solidity– too full, with too much of life. She could not remember.
The poppy fields of her lost summers, she wanted to see them bloom again.
Those red, black-hearted blossoms, nodding and dancing in the breeze, lying crushed under her as she moved with her husband, coloring the air in opium– she wanted them back, those fields where they had made her son.
She drove slowly in the dusk, her eyes on the distance, on the road below her with its moving stream of traffic. The lights, a river of cars, a slow-moving river of light, on a Friday evening, people going home or out of town for their weekends. Everyone had a right to joy, to life, as did Robbie, sitting beside her, tall and strong like his father. Eyes closed, he danced his head to the music from his earphones, lost to the world, unaware his father was alive and looked for him.