Two brothers


Two brothers,

Two pairs of lungs,

One womb,

Two ovaries,

Two eggs,

One, Two

Back at school today. Buzzer set on oven timer for 15 minutes. All the boys and men sleep. The cars are whooshing past. Lots of them. Its all a rush. A rush back to normality. The new year. The tedious routines of coaxing children to school each day. The rythum of homework and guitar lessons and the time in-between for art and job searching, sole searching, planning to loose weight, acts of self improvement.

My hands are inflamed with arthritis. All this damp cold weather. They don’t hurt they just look swollen around the knuckles. Still feel asleep. Didn’t sleep too heavily as knew I had to be up this morning, to be sharp and with it about getting the kids together. Sip of tea. More whooshing of cars on the road, makes me realise how silent the festive season has been. Now all awakened from the hibernation. All bears awake. I feel fed up. I am growling.

I have all my family back together. It os such a relief. An equilibrium. The scales  are balanced. Where there is one, there is two. Two boys with two sets of lungs breathing, breathing soundly and deeply.

On the way to ikea, I spoke to Patrick in the car. I am not sure he really agrees of me writing this, posting pictures of the children makes him feel uncomfortable. He talks about the historical trace of Naoise life that will exist online as he grows older. I argue that it all comes from a place of love, and that I do not wish any harm to anyone. He has a point though, home is a sanctuary. A place where you can lock out the world. Home a place where a private life can be had. I keep opening the curtains on the inside. Electronic light, blue light streams into our home. The blue light fills the faces of the children. What am I adding to anything by writing this. Is there any sense to documenting and recording our lives ? I am not sure myself, I need convincing. If its art there may not be any particular aim. I naively hope that it will be a transformative experience. That my clunky writing may improve, that I may find that I can express difficult emotions and circumstances.

It is so hard when Syd leaves his dads and re-enters our lives, our home. How strange this must feel. With his huge sense of loss for his fathers time and attention, I feel a huge sense of relief and comfort that he is once more with me. There is a disjuncture between our emotions, I struggle to empathise with him. I read him a book, a chapter of some comedy. He is sad, there are few laughs. We watched a documentary about Bob Marley. It was so amazing. The tin shack that had been his home, the words of passion, his rise to success. “No woman no cry, no woman no cry.” I sing “No boy no cry, No boy no cry to” Syd in his dreams.

The buzzer sounds and there are footsteps on the stairs.

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