Sick day

I stare at the passing bus
Wondering how much
The wheels would hurt
As they roll over me
But it would be extreme
To watch my body bend
And break
Just for the sake
Of getting out of work
When the only reason
I don’t want to go
Is there is so much life
I want to live
(I think I may need a new job folks.)


Among friends

The fire cracks in the homely hearth
As memories and stories flow,
Recounting each our winding path;
Long years and days divide, we know,
Yet always we return at last
To ties which bound us long ago,
The memories of childhood past:
Of winter games amidst the snow.

When in some autumn year we meet,
And talk again of years before,
Will we in memories repeat
These patterns which the flames restore?
Of cherry whisky, tartan pleats,
Bad music choices fast deplored,
The plans which may yet come to be
And those that by the wayside fall.

If I should drift across the sea
Sharp memories of this may fade,
But always something here will be
That will not wane with groaning age;
A lifetime built of memories
The sum of which I’ll gladly pay
Whether my life shall set me free
Or drag me to an early grave.

Conversation with my son

“What is your favourite book?” He asks me.
I try to answer, but discover that is is one of those things which changes over time, what might be my favourite book at one time might not be my favourite at others. Some which are perennial favourites become coloured with sadness. I have to learn that sharing my favourite things with others sometimes means that they will touch them, not just literally.

I ask him if I can have a top ten. He approves.

Three of them are books I have read to him. The others I have shared with other people, sometimes never to see them again.

“What is your favourite colour?”

Oh. I think. Difficult. Then decide on burgundy.

“What is your favourite song?”

Again I find I can’t answer directly. Its not that I am indecisive, maybe it is, its just that I can’t put my finger on one. Just one? Can I have a top ten for this too? 

Once again I ask and he approves.

I am lost in the words of songs which make me want to curl up and weep for all the memories they stir within me.

So many songs which are favourites because of the memories associated with them, or which then become unbearable because of the emotions.

What if he asks me who my favourite person is? How do I answer? That I love him as much as his sister but that they both mean so much to me in their own different ways? What about those I have chosen to love? 

Loving my children didn’t involve any decision, it just was. Did loving anyone else require a consious choice? Did I decide to love them or did I just decide to accept that I love and therefore accept the pain which goes with it? Do they mean more even though they are no longer in my life? Have they meant more? Or is it just different?

I find myself adrift in an ocean of memories, all because of three simple questions from one little boy.