Mother’s Day

There was a card on the Prom by the bar. It was still in it’s cellophane. A Mother’s Day card. A Happy Mother’s Day card, left, dropped, abandoned in the rain, in the wet. On Monday I’d noticed some words written out on the beach. On North Beach, big letters formed out of seaweed and pebbles. Carefully done. Meticulously done. Happy Mother’s Day it read. The sea hadn’t taken it the morning after. I forgot to look this morning. Surely it has gone.

They keep sending me them. Mothers’ Day cards. I don’t want them. I never have. It gives me the creeps really. Total strangers commiserating. Sending me a card because they believe I won’t get one. They are right. But I don’t mind and their gesture could never make up for anything from her. Ever.

I dreamt I was there at a birth. It was another woman’s. My child’s? I don’t know. I was the only one there. I was the only one helping. I did it. I birthed the child. A long, tall, dark-haired beauty. Almost fully grown. I did it. I was so proud in my dream. I walked head held high. So proud. I wasn’t scared. Well, a little. It wasn’t gory but laborious. I know that. I helped guide it out. No blood. But there was water and a sac. Symbolic. Naturally. She’ll have such tall girls, I said.

We are off. Off for some tea and a seminar. I want to talk about sewing, to find the questions I need to ask. I want to be prepared this time, though leaving a chink open for the unexpected.

Barbara, he said, sat there sewing. I heard it as I made breakfast. I was listening to a radio dramatization of The Old Curiosity Shop. Kit has got a new job and he is being watched by a girl sewing. I must look it up. I heard it. My ear pricked up. Sewing.

Tea. I need tea in a silver pot. Off. Off into the grey morning. The sunrise was pink. Stunning. To be replaced by clouds. Ho-hum.