Post by JimO on May 9, 2018 2:38:40 GMT -5
Thx for any support you can offer guys, much appreciated. Jim.
Help Taff. He is lost.
Watch the hurters.
Tearing out the pages to burn them would have been smart, but Max couldn’t bring herself to do it. When she wrote down her promises they came to life and reminded her to atone for past failures with even tougher commitments.
She slotted her favourite ballpoint pen in the loop of the journal she'd bought specially and slipped too many secrets under her side of the mattress, same place as always. Taff would never know. He didn’t make the bed or wash the sheets.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
Sammy: six, noisy, and perfect.
‘In here, little man. Tidying some clothes away.’ Max harried to a cream chest of drawers in the corner of the room where she smoothed the tee-shirts already folded inside. Sammy didn’t know about her journal either. The chronicle of her existence. Never, ever shared.
Her son barged into the bedroom, all bouncing blonde curls, eyelashes to die for−truthfully, she’d have died for any part of him. ‘When’s Daddy home?’
‘Not long.’ Another white lie, for Sammy’s sake. ‘Come on. Let’s get your teeth cleaned. He might be here by the time we’re done.’ Her son didn’t need to understand. He’d be asleep soon.
Sammy led the way to the bathroom. ‘Dino loves you, Mummy.'
‘Tell Dino I love him too.’
‘You tell him. He likes it when you talk to him.’
Sammy held up his love-worn plush so Max could see him properly.
Bought when Sammy was first born, when her promises were easier to keep.
Help Taff. He is lost.
Watch the hurters.
Tearing out the pages to burn them would have been smart, but Max couldn’t bring herself to do it. When she wrote down her promises they came to life and reminded her to atone for past failures with even tougher commitments.
She slotted her favourite ballpoint pen in the loop of the journal she'd bought specially and slipped too many secrets under her side of the mattress, same place as always. Taff would never know. He didn’t make the bed or wash the sheets.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
Sammy: six, noisy, and perfect.
‘In here, little man. Tidying some clothes away.’ Max harried to a cream chest of drawers in the corner of the room where she smoothed the tee-shirts already folded inside. Sammy didn’t know about her journal either. The chronicle of her existence. Never, ever shared.
Her son barged into the bedroom, all bouncing blonde curls, eyelashes to die for−truthfully, she’d have died for any part of him. ‘When’s Daddy home?’
‘Not long.’ Another white lie, for Sammy’s sake. ‘Come on. Let’s get your teeth cleaned. He might be here by the time we’re done.’ Her son didn’t need to understand. He’d be asleep soon.
Sammy led the way to the bathroom. ‘Dino loves you, Mummy.'
‘Tell Dino I love him too.’
‘You tell him. He likes it when you talk to him.’
Sammy held up his love-worn plush so Max could see him properly.
Bought when Sammy was first born, when her promises were easier to keep.
