Posted on July 17, 2015July 17, 2015 by Patricia Ann McNair7.17.2015 Journal Prompt Photo by Vivian Maier July 17, 2015: I thought he was… Like this:Like Loading... Related
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And mom says once more round the park and she’s meaning me on my bike and she’s saying it lightly and with a smile and her voice lifted like it’s something I want to do. And I been round nearly ten times already, so many I’m almost dizzy, and I’m close to crying with the cold that it is, and mom don’t seem to notice or if she notices well she don’t mind.
She says she’s not finished her cigarette yet, and well, she can’t be smoking in the house now can she? Cos that just makes dad mad – mad as kicked dogs or wasps that has been disturbed, and dad breaks plates then and cups. But though mom’s clutching a lit cigarette, I know it’s not for the finishing of it that I must go round the park one more time.
She promises me a cup of hot chocolate when we get home, steaming and with sweet marshmallow pillows adrift in the brown milky heat and all soft and melting. And mom’s calling me ‘sugar’ and she’s almost pleading for me to go round one more time, just one more, and not to make a fuss about it when I do.
And I know that mom’s waiting for someone. I seen her looking at her watch before, checking it and holding it to her ear in case it was stopped or running slippy, and then checking again. And her attention keeps wandering over to the gates of the park, and looking at the faces of all the people passing. And I know she’s waiting for a man called Pete.
They meet most days and mom’s face all lit up when she sees him and it ain’t never lit up like that at any other time. Not even when dad is in a good place and he’s kissing her and saying she looks pretty as peaches or plums, and his hands touching her titties – which I’m not supposed to see what he’s doing. And mom is laughing and telling dad no, and not sounding like she really means no, and not even then is she lit up like she is when she sees Pete.
And I’m not to tell. It’s our secret, she says, and we don’t want dad to be breaking things again do we – breaking mirrors and milk jugs and glasses. And mom puts one finger across my lips, like she’s taking a kiss from me, and I say I won’t tell and I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die – stick a needle in my eye. Not no one. Not about them kissing, Pete and my mom, and dancing to no music, and holding hands soft as holding injured birds or pet mice.
So, I nod when mom says once more round the park, and I hold back the hurt that I’m feeling and the pinch and nip of the cold at my fingers, try to at least, and I say to my mom, ok. And she thanks me with kisses and smiles, and she says again about the hot chocolate and making a face like she’ll have one too, and she looks at her watch once more and back to the park gates and looking a little lost when she does.
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