I was about 11-12 years old, on summer holiday in the Norfolk Broads with my mum, dad, 2 sisters and a cousin. I was one of the youngest children. It was early afternoon on a clear and sunny late summer’s day. We’d moored our hired long boat in a very quiet area next to fields and …
We were asked to donate a nearly-new cuddly toy to my boy’s school to raise funds in the Christmas raffle. My son decided to give away one of his precious teddies. The teddies of all shapes and sizes (and species) jumble together in a seemingly random heap, next to his pillow in bed. However, they apparently have a strict ranking and …
I love his face.
His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.
I love his range of facial expressions.
I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).
His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.
His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.
I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.
I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.
He is so funny.
So, different.
I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.
I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.
To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.
To crunch him up,
Tight.
In a box.
Like school and society want.
Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.
Owey, Owey Oatflake.
Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.
You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.
It’s the not taking part that counts.
the crone 