when someone tells me about their day i smile and honour their privilege to spend it as they would. they cheer about their children their achievements and their lives. i smile and marvel at the ease of their days. my days are not punctuated nor calculated into their marvels or my coffee mornings with friends who have travelled the lengths of the world with gold credit cards, slinging a anorexic daughter by their side. my days are authentic and crude, roughened by the scratches and bites of a child who had no understanding of why he behaves so. my evenings are calmed by the tears we share as a family knowing the only authentic thing we can do for each other is love. some days are rougher than usual and some nights are feverish.i have very little or no time to write and I do feel that. writing requires a calm which my home does not have. not the kid of calm where you can sit at a desk or cuddle into your notebooks for hours on a couch; getting up only for a coffee or bite of that cheese. I write with ferocity in bits on my phone.tye notebook I bought for myself lies empty on my bedside, for i can never sit and write in it… i want to smell ink on paper but not now… so i write in drafts and leave them there. for a long while i wrote on Twitter , the addiction of being read was such a delight and a high. I wanted to be acknowledged and seen. but it did take away important years of writing detailed work… yet it offered me some solace that I was writing aphorisms be it but I was.. I’d write while there was chaos around me.. I still do.. as I write now I am punctured by the last tantrum of the day.. bedtime. I feel for the other children but am helpless.. all I have is my love for them and understanding of how hard it must be for them to have special siblings.
for now we wait
and there will be time to reinvent ourselves