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Friday, 14 September 2012

A tale of two sons,. An unsung heroine.

"Two hours!  Its two hours minimum study required for the  Junior Cert! We discussed this! You agreed, GET OFF THE X BOX!",  the boy turns  his head slightly, his eyes never leaving the screen, "Uhh, I' ve done a lot of homework already,  must have been  at least...nearly..... two hours.  No! I haven't been home only an hour,  well  anyway it felt like two hours, well ...just...wait,  I have to finish this, I have to...ALLRIGHT I AM GOING.  "And," I say as he lurches out (6Ft.1in  with no idea how to wear it) "you have about twenty unwashed mugs in your room, you gotta make your lunch for tomorrow, and your laundry is  lost somewhere in your quarters, PUT IT IN THE WASHING MACHINE DAMMIT .  I am NOT  doing it. NOT." (mutter) ( mutter) (mutter).  Yeah, the reluctant scholar is back to school. I am even considering a change of school for him. "You should be worried. Some of his friends are  actually getting high in front of him"  the first daughter announces,  severely.  "HUH"? She, grilled after dropping that bombshell, rowed back a little,.  "Its going on , ...he is not doing it, yet,... but its only a matter of time".  I decide to leave him where he is for the moment as he has parted company  with a  worrying group of  dissolute trolls  this year,  after an intense fling with them  last term. They are gone from his  landscape  (with the horse they rode in on)  And he is in an exam year,  and the dissolute dope smoking are everywhere.  And  he has no idea of his own transparency when he seeks to conceal.  And any nascent  smoking drinking and suchlike activities  are written all over his aura. And and and.

Also, its a matter of time. He will grow up.  I know. I have one  fully grown.  I spoke to the eldest on the phone later on. He, intact, solid, and  squarely eyeballing the world  talked of his wife, who has had the all clear for now,   at the living end of a gruelling course of chemotherapy.  Its best not  to dwell on the savage exactions   of this  cure  on the  young and still tender. Like others before her, she averred that she would  (could)  endure it only because she has children, has people who need her.  Having the final session, lying down on the rack one more time,  is an act of heroism, a feat of endurance, a brave defiance.  

It is autumn, the heartless  rain has stopped at at last. You realise how long you have been  peering,  half blinded,    through   dense shifting  water,  see  the vibrant   green flowering   it fostered and hid,  all the enduring  unsung miracles  in the world. She will live, appreciative and honed to a  fine steel.  My hat goes off to her.