Thursday, 8 November 2012

time


Oh, the boy person is a just few centimetres short of me — if I stand up straight. I glanced, this morning, at the photo of him I took when he was in the plastic cot next to me in Birmingham maternity ward. Nearly fifteen years ago . . .Where does time go. Evaporates. I'm glad I keep a diary. deadly dull though it is, I can open a page from anytime in the last fifteen years and that day will come to life, the few scrawled words a window onto the few hours we spent walking, eating, laughing, crying — whatever.
Some days stand out, some are dully uniform. The lists may be addressed, or not, we will walk the dogs, music will be practiced, lunch eaten, some attempts to make money, a step closer to the finishing of one or more projects.
I must get out of my furry slippers and velour jog pants and further the day before it, like all the others, becomes another diary page.

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