"Wrong! theres only one speed van on each stretch of road, AND he's always in the same place, always" the boy has emerged from his miasmic gloom of last night ( much passionate electric guitar playing with a closed look on his face) . He's first out the traps into the eternal argument on our way to school this morning. "But..but.. there could be another one, further on in front of us, another one........" the boss never got to finish, "They have a limited number of vans, how do you suppose they could EVEN AFFORD to have more than one in each area, they're trying to slow you down not catch you out" the boy is energetically working up a head of steam, "And you know this how?" the dreaming genuis comes to life ( from a dignified retreat on being told to pull down her skirt). "Just look it up on the internet, go on, they show you where the van is, in each area", the boy is on a roll (and loud. Loud) "But that doesn't mean there can't be others..".. "It DOES, read the stuff on the website, they 're not trying to catch you out, it's always, always, the same place". "Umm well we must check out the website darling, to settle the arguement". "There's no point, HE settles the arguement by shouting everyone else down". (the dreamer is bitter) "And YOU never..." "Christmas boxes,! for people in need!" I say hastily "have we got ours ready" (a strategic change of subject) "Oh, and you know there's a lot of homelessness in town", says the boy wisely, "we see Red Willlie out side our school every morning,. Of course," chuckling, "he's not actually homeless, just comes in on the train every day and pretends to be". "Really, mum all you have to do is look around you in town and you will spot the homeless people, its not a joke, they are there", (my pained angel) " Yes and how do you actually know they are homeless darling?". "Oh , oh you do know," said the boss, " like sometimes you see people who like have like layers, like two jumpers tied around their wast and maybe two coats on top, and ...and... and old shoes". "Ah" said I, "people wearing their entire wardrobe in fact ." "Yes, ( the First daughter has gone from stern to icy) yes, and those people are cold (a slight shudder, she being a cold creature) and have no where to go". "And ...like mum, WHY do we have a big house all to ourselves" (the boss is in accusative mode ). "Huh?". "Yes, all to ourselves when you could fit another family in our house. At least". I protest faintly that our house is not that big, and we have a person in every bed room, while reflecting that another family might be interesting considering that this family cannot abide each other for long stretches of the day. We discuss tenements, where, I say entire families had a room each in large houses in the last century, and there was huge efforts made to get them OUT OF THAT, and into proper accomodation. "But you can see homeless people, every day NOW" insists my avenging angel.... "Yes" ( the boss's tone is sadly reproachful)and..and..like .. there's that man who sits outside all day long, near your office mum, on the doorstep, you can see him all the time.". (I feel as though I have told them all to eat cake.)( And you can call me Marie Antoinette ). "Oh " bellows the boy , "I KNOW him, we all know him, HUH , he knows what he's doing, and he always winks at you". "Theres is no point, NO POINT, in continuing with this conversation" (the angel speaks. ). "No, no, go on darling, say what you want to say ". " NO point. There is no point with HIM talking over you,ALL THE TIME. I refuse to discuss this, while HE is allowed shout everyone down, and sneer and never be dealt with!" There is a silence after this passionate speech. Then I tell her that, in my experience, sadly, this is how men argue and/or debate, they compete, they attack, it often involves shouting. "And after all darling its good experience for you, to make yourself heard over him. When I went to university, it took me quite a while to adjust to men taking over debates and discussions and I wasted a lot of time being indignant, until the penny dropped. They do the same to each other, its not gender directed," "Huh, thats just unreal, mum, thats...thats just a cop out, you just let him away with it". "And the good thing (I labour on brightly, in her cold silence) IS THAT THEY NEVER MIND YOU SHOUTING BACK. ITS..ITS ...LIBERATING ". I am addressing (shouting as it turns out) her back as she climbs out of the car, and unfortuately follow up with an injunction to pull down her skirt (shifted upwards again). I say unfortunate as, according to the boss and the sniggering boy, there is a small group of youths standing nearby who overhear and are staring after her, broad grins on their faces. (OH DEAR GOD the poor girl is right, and I am an Inadequate. A terrible fool). But perhaps she hasn't realised. ". "Umm mum, I think she knows, " as we pass her by, arms actually folded, and face set as she walks. And that my friends is how to alienate your beloved daughter, ( fast forward to hours of appeasement later on) from sheer inadvertant tacklessness and instinctive motherly injunctions at the wrong moment. The so very wrong moment.
I drove into town to collect the boy from meeting up with his friend on Friday evening. "But surely, darling, there were only two of you when I left you in?" as I extracted him from a buzzing ball of at least twenty boys. " Oh" he said airly "we just kind of picked them up as we went along, you know, fellas all on a half day from school, hanging around, we sort of gathered them up and kept going. "going where dear boy? "Oh, nowhere, not really, just walkin and talkin, just hangin around". The entire gathering seemed to have vanished when I looked back .. As though I had unravelled a ball of wool when I extracted the boy. "Where have they gone now?". "Home" he said laconically before asking me what was for dinner. I had a sudden arresting vision of a vortex, a boyball rolling through the town sucking every pubesent boy into its ever increasing energy field, emptying the town and hinterland of laughing, care for nothing boys, til I and a few other parents extracted a handful, and the rest fell out, seeping home to their tired, bemused and (no doubt) relieved parents.
The boss has won an inter schools art competition on Monday. Her second win this term, her earlier poster win going forward to represent the county. She is a prolific prize winner of art and other childrens' competitions. The school encourages it, its good for them and good for her. And, as I think I may have already mentioned , I bask. Her first painting competition win occured when she was seven years old. That competition was sponsered by the parents of a small child who had died, a pupil at the school, a silver cup given to the winner in her memory. When she won, the boss brooded much on whether this would make the childs parents feel any better, and why and how the child died. For a time, it seemed she could not think about her win at all without thinking about this child. There was much discussion about what happens when we die (such a long story) and why, and why that particular child and not another. I struggled to explain, as you do, to put some safe shape on the realities of death and loss. You never feel you are actually qualified to offer these( halting)explanations. And you never are. The boss herself caused me a few heart stopping moments. When she was two months old, as I tiredly descended the stairs , a footslip and she flew from my arms, a precious fragile thing (so recently and with such brooding careful thought , such labouring energy, brought into the world) falling down endlessly, getting further and further away from me to as I watched, useless. (useless) (useless). "I think we were lucky this time, She must have bounced on her nappy, not a bother on her," the doctor told me later with grim humour. I had a similar sensation two years later, when she fell under the reversing car of a horrified neighbour, the sense of increasing, forever stretching distance as I ran on and on towards the car pinning my silent child. It is as though you have already taken on board an eternity of consequences and loss in an elongated second, a lifetime of guilt accepted, a desperate bargaining with god, fate, or something, being offered in arrested time. And we were lucky that time too, a clean break in her leg, her precious head and vital organs safely clear of the wheel. I was hysterical, unravelled for a long time afterwards. I sometimes access those desperate slices of frozen time, of watching at the top of the stairs,of the endless never to arrive race towards the car, a head trip for darker moments. She has forgotten about the child who gave her name to that early art competition now, she glories in her win, plots on the spending of a generous cash prize as she ought, though I have not. All her subsequent wins, briefly and poignantly bringing this child to mind. Her sister had , in fact, brought home a sad little story the year before, about a child in her class, headscarf wearing and often absent, who didn't run about with the other children in the yard "cos she's not allowed, mum", but who was always smiling "cos she's nice mum". I began to check on whether this child had had come to school from time to time. One day, she said to me "Oh no, mum, she never comes in now". I made some enquires, and it was as I had apprehended. My daughter never mentioned the child again, forgot about her , I suppose, but the fate of those two children merged in my mind, a waking nightmare, the small hostage to fortune given with each child, lost , the haunting fear of all parents, the unthinkable thing if you are to carry on with reasonable confidence and the energy required in rearing children. . This poem is about agony. And the unyielding love of parents.
GRIEF
Held
by
unbearably slender thread,
an egg shell head
is all ,between my baby and the void.
Inadequate membrane of pink and bone
to house
my jewel, my care, my own,
that cruel chemicals exposed.
The soft brown down that grew
and stirred our hopes
not enough
to keep my sweet one warm.
We wrapped her up in cotton wool,
in layer on layer on layer of love.
The drugs they said,
we spoonfed
from her poisoned cup.
We took her back to school
the glory days
we knew she could.
I held her ghosthand fast
the long way there
the long way back,
oh fool, remember not to hold too hard.
Her face and open beam of glee
to be
with her own kind.
So rough, so rude, so everyone of them alive.
My face a mask,
I mimed goodbye,
I mimed
dont crush, dont push
dont be too much
dont let her know you know,
on this day let her be a living child.
Her tense and radient face
dreams of beginning
willing to start.
The memory,
snapshot
slow corrodes my heart.
It trails to mock my struggle through nightsdark.
I carry you
you carry me
between us two she lies.
I am without compass
point
this husk.
The small white coffin has the rest.
(We let them, take her, coffin with the rest)
Epilogue: she stood beside me a few minutes ago, the boss, at the lift in the multi story car park telling me about how she played the same traditional songs over and over on the accordian in the school band, for the school open day ( Open Days, even in primary schools these days, such is the competition for pupils and precious grants) "and.. .and I had to give my red band jacket to Roisin, mum, cos like she forgot hers, n only mine would fit her, and they gave me another too small one, and my arm was bent in it as I played, n like I couldn't straighten it, and it was so funny, n we had to play the same songs over n over, and we couldnt stop laughing, n it was brillant, like so much better than class, n Mrs Ryan was pleased with us, even though we kept laughing, n even though my arm was achy n we had to keep playing the same ones over n over, like, like KEEP PLAYIN GIRLS! SHE SAID, n even tho we laughed, n laughted, n laughed" and she was off, away from me, running down the up moving escalator, her solid twelve year old frame a blur of motion , hair streaming behind "cos the lift is so boring mum, an this its faster, n the boy n me always come down this way you know , n you should try it yourself Mum" she breathlessly tells me when I catch up with her down below.
I drove into town to collect the boy from meeting up with his friend on Friday evening. "But surely, darling, there were only two of you when I left you in?" as I extracted him from a buzzing ball of at least twenty boys. " Oh" he said airly "we just kind of picked them up as we went along, you know, fellas all on a half day from school, hanging around, we sort of gathered them up and kept going. "going where dear boy? "Oh, nowhere, not really, just walkin and talkin, just hangin around". The entire gathering seemed to have vanished when I looked back .. As though I had unravelled a ball of wool when I extracted the boy. "Where have they gone now?". "Home" he said laconically before asking me what was for dinner. I had a sudden arresting vision of a vortex, a boyball rolling through the town sucking every pubesent boy into its ever increasing energy field, emptying the town and hinterland of laughing, care for nothing boys, til I and a few other parents extracted a handful, and the rest fell out, seeping home to their tired, bemused and (no doubt) relieved parents.
The boss has won an inter schools art competition on Monday. Her second win this term, her earlier poster win going forward to represent the county. She is a prolific prize winner of art and other childrens' competitions. The school encourages it, its good for them and good for her. And, as I think I may have already mentioned , I bask. Her first painting competition win occured when she was seven years old. That competition was sponsered by the parents of a small child who had died, a pupil at the school, a silver cup given to the winner in her memory. When she won, the boss brooded much on whether this would make the childs parents feel any better, and why and how the child died. For a time, it seemed she could not think about her win at all without thinking about this child. There was much discussion about what happens when we die (such a long story) and why, and why that particular child and not another. I struggled to explain, as you do, to put some safe shape on the realities of death and loss. You never feel you are actually qualified to offer these( halting)explanations. And you never are. The boss herself caused me a few heart stopping moments. When she was two months old, as I tiredly descended the stairs , a footslip and she flew from my arms, a precious fragile thing (so recently and with such brooding careful thought , such labouring energy, brought into the world) falling down endlessly, getting further and further away from me to as I watched, useless. (useless) (useless). "I think we were lucky this time, She must have bounced on her nappy, not a bother on her," the doctor told me later with grim humour. I had a similar sensation two years later, when she fell under the reversing car of a horrified neighbour, the sense of increasing, forever stretching distance as I ran on and on towards the car pinning my silent child. It is as though you have already taken on board an eternity of consequences and loss in an elongated second, a lifetime of guilt accepted, a desperate bargaining with god, fate, or something, being offered in arrested time. And we were lucky that time too, a clean break in her leg, her precious head and vital organs safely clear of the wheel. I was hysterical, unravelled for a long time afterwards. I sometimes access those desperate slices of frozen time, of watching at the top of the stairs,of the endless never to arrive race towards the car, a head trip for darker moments. She has forgotten about the child who gave her name to that early art competition now, she glories in her win, plots on the spending of a generous cash prize as she ought, though I have not. All her subsequent wins, briefly and poignantly bringing this child to mind. Her sister had , in fact, brought home a sad little story the year before, about a child in her class, headscarf wearing and often absent, who didn't run about with the other children in the yard "cos she's not allowed, mum", but who was always smiling "cos she's nice mum". I began to check on whether this child had had come to school from time to time. One day, she said to me "Oh no, mum, she never comes in now". I made some enquires, and it was as I had apprehended. My daughter never mentioned the child again, forgot about her , I suppose, but the fate of those two children merged in my mind, a waking nightmare, the small hostage to fortune given with each child, lost , the haunting fear of all parents, the unthinkable thing if you are to carry on with reasonable confidence and the energy required in rearing children. . This poem is about agony. And the unyielding love of parents.
GRIEF
Held
by
unbearably slender thread,
an egg shell head
is all ,between my baby and the void.
Inadequate membrane of pink and bone
to house
my jewel, my care, my own,
that cruel chemicals exposed.
The soft brown down that grew
and stirred our hopes
not enough
to keep my sweet one warm.
We wrapped her up in cotton wool,
in layer on layer on layer of love.
The drugs they said,
we spoonfed
from her poisoned cup.
We took her back to school
the glory days
we knew she could.
I held her ghosthand fast
the long way there
the long way back,
oh fool, remember not to hold too hard.
Her face and open beam of glee
to be
with her own kind.
So rough, so rude, so everyone of them alive.
My face a mask,
I mimed goodbye,
I mimed
dont crush, dont push
dont be too much
dont let her know you know,
on this day let her be a living child.
Her tense and radient face
dreams of beginning
willing to start.
The memory,
snapshot
slow corrodes my heart.
It trails to mock my struggle through nightsdark.
I carry you
you carry me
between us two she lies.
I am without compass
point
this husk.
The small white coffin has the rest.
(We let them, take her, coffin with the rest)
Epilogue: she stood beside me a few minutes ago, the boss, at the lift in the multi story car park telling me about how she played the same traditional songs over and over on the accordian in the school band, for the school open day ( Open Days, even in primary schools these days, such is the competition for pupils and precious grants) "and.. .and I had to give my red band jacket to Roisin, mum, cos like she forgot hers, n only mine would fit her, and they gave me another too small one, and my arm was bent in it as I played, n like I couldn't straighten it, and it was so funny, n we had to play the same songs over n over, and we couldnt stop laughing, n it was brillant, like so much better than class, n Mrs Ryan was pleased with us, even though we kept laughing, n even though my arm was achy n we had to keep playing the same ones over n over, like, like KEEP PLAYIN GIRLS! SHE SAID, n even tho we laughed, n laughted, n laughed" and she was off, away from me, running down the up moving escalator, her solid twelve year old frame a blur of motion , hair streaming behind "cos the lift is so boring mum, an this its faster, n the boy n me always come down this way you know , n you should try it yourself Mum" she breathlessly tells me when I catch up with her down below.
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