Monday, 1 April 2013

My Son Was Sitting In His Classroom.

I sat outside the classroom and watched my son. He's only eleven.

Millions of parents watch their kids every day. But I'm not millions I'm one and he's mine and the way the tendrils curl around his ears when his hair gets too long is so gorgeous that I want to punch something. What is that?

My son sat between his best mate Zac and a girl with long blonde hair. My son was wearing a bright green watch. Nobody in his class knew how that very morning he'd stood in the kitchen at home and announced that his watch was, in fact, waterproof.

"No. I mean, water resistant. Hang on - what's the difference again mum?"

I told him the difference between waterproof and water resistant like one day I hope to tell him the difference between sex and drugs, god and the devil; love and fear.

This world's gonna make sure he gets his heart broken and his hat tooken. In the meantime I watch him swing on his chair in class just like I used to swing on my chair in class.

With my bare mind I willed him to look up at me. Eleven years ago he brought forth sobriety and grace from the underworld. Lately I'm faltering but he still tells me his dreams. He ignores the blonde girl and looks straight up, straight through me. Threw me.

And laughs.

Later we walk through the autumn day and he picks me a purple flower, carefully arranges it in the dusty Jarritos bottle. Fills it to near overflowing and the excess water spills out onto the tablecloth.

I never did a thing to deserve such a flower. That's how grace works.

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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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