Dear Alex, Every Thought...
20th May 2013
Dear Alex,
Is that really the date? nearly the end of May...Is it ever going to just stop, time, and reverse and give me you back? Nothing more than a dire long nightmare that took the man I loved, the man I adored from my reach. That made him not be able to see his own children, able to talk clearly, able to walk, communicate, protect me or provide...
I busy myself after the late cricket run, surrounded by Dads looking on, collecting proudly their sons, son runs at dad, dad pats him on head, 'alright, son? How'd it go, how was your batting?'...And son looks at dad, love in his eyes as they walk off- dad's arm round son's shoulder and son kicks grass and they go home together. I feel sick. Cricket always gets me. Monty cries every time after.
He cries from the moment we are in the car till the moment he heaves his last sob in my bed- he sleeps every Monday in my bed, not wanting to be on his own 'in case I have nightmares again, mum, please?'
I stroke his head and I let his tears roll. I have been thinking recently that I have almost forgotten how it must be for him, in particular him, especially as he grows. He grows without the dad he had. He plays cricket without the dad helping him, neither there at pick up nor at drop off. And in his head, you aren't a dad to him...
So he grows without his dad.
He gives you kisses and the odd cuddle now, that's easier for him, but anything more than that he rejects. He doesn't talk to you spontaneously as the girls do, I step in gently encouraging- 'Ask your dad if you want a biscuit, not me' just to include, to try to heal a broken father and son bond.
But I can't.
Not me.
Not now.
Not ever?
And so tonight I busy myself after I finally have them in bed, I fold washing, I wash clothes, I steam clean the carpets and I try not to think of you.
Only every thought as I clean, wash, fold, clean wash fold, clean wash fold, is for you, and for our red eyed, cheeks I can trace the tracks of his tears, now asleep in my bed, where once you used to lie, little boy...
me xxxxxxxxxxx
Dear Alex,
Is that really the date? nearly the end of May...Is it ever going to just stop, time, and reverse and give me you back? Nothing more than a dire long nightmare that took the man I loved, the man I adored from my reach. That made him not be able to see his own children, able to talk clearly, able to walk, communicate, protect me or provide...
I busy myself after the late cricket run, surrounded by Dads looking on, collecting proudly their sons, son runs at dad, dad pats him on head, 'alright, son? How'd it go, how was your batting?'...And son looks at dad, love in his eyes as they walk off- dad's arm round son's shoulder and son kicks grass and they go home together. I feel sick. Cricket always gets me. Monty cries every time after.
He cries from the moment we are in the car till the moment he heaves his last sob in my bed- he sleeps every Monday in my bed, not wanting to be on his own 'in case I have nightmares again, mum, please?'
I stroke his head and I let his tears roll. I have been thinking recently that I have almost forgotten how it must be for him, in particular him, especially as he grows. He grows without the dad he had. He plays cricket without the dad helping him, neither there at pick up nor at drop off. And in his head, you aren't a dad to him...
So he grows without his dad.
He gives you kisses and the odd cuddle now, that's easier for him, but anything more than that he rejects. He doesn't talk to you spontaneously as the girls do, I step in gently encouraging- 'Ask your dad if you want a biscuit, not me' just to include, to try to heal a broken father and son bond.
But I can't.
Not me.
Not now.
Not ever?
And so tonight I busy myself after I finally have them in bed, I fold washing, I wash clothes, I steam clean the carpets and I try not to think of you.
Only every thought as I clean, wash, fold, clean wash fold, clean wash fold, is for you, and for our red eyed, cheeks I can trace the tracks of his tears, now asleep in my bed, where once you used to lie, little boy...
me xxxxxxxxxxx
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