Illusion

I’m walking, the sun behind me, a halo of light around my ears. A saint. No, an illusion. I’m no saint.

Then what am I? Just a woman. A mother. Have been for more years than I haven’t been. Seems seamless but there are many stitches, threads bared, holes emerged. Motherhood is not without an oath or two.

It’s tough trying to make your babies good. Saints.

Are they? No, it’s just an illusion. They have babies now, they’re growing fast, oaths muffled around them, along with joy, sunshine and snow. The snow is falling, the sunshine gone. It’s dark now around my ears. Motherhood slips into oblivion, little growing children slip into oblivion, sun slips into oblivion, happiness turns into pretence. What is there now, I write? I write and I write until I can write no more.

What is writing anyhow. What am I? A writer? No, it’s just an illusion. I’ll write no more. I’ll just walk forward into the darkness, the snow melting on my cheeks, ageing cheeks. Trees, leaves alive, will survive, roots deep, branches high. My eyes want to cry but are dry, tearless worry hanging onto hope. I walk and walk, climb, climb up that hill, my heart beats fast, my breath puckers, it’s leaving my lungs in short sharp gasps. My lungs are white, freezing bags of air, or no air as they puff out shallow pants from me.

I’m breathless, airless. I’m getting old. I wish that was an illusion. I’m not the oldest, my mother is here. She’s older by twenty and five years, chased by tears, by fears, by cares. Who cares? She’s elderly with underlying health issues. Seems, no one cares.

The bigger family does. I do. I care, I’m a carer. No illusion.