Saturday, 16 April 2016

Prompt 11 - Death has torn up my roots

These days I notice that I wake up shivering. It's like the fear has set in before daybreak. Consciousness shaking me out of the protective darkness of sleep. I curl foetal around the soft comfort of your clothes and shudder, wondering how to face the day. And then my little boy's face appears at the bedside and I shove your clothes behind me and reach out for his morning softness and the shivers gradually cease. For him and his sister I will get out of bed. I will smile. I will go on. I am their roots and their strength. From me they grow. 
Death has torn up my roots. My parents are gone and I stand alone, wobbly, unanchored and without you by my side. You were the one I held onto. You held me firm, kept me upright. With you I was starting to grow. And you were growing too in symbiosis. But you were cut down overnight, in your prime with no warning and now my nourishment is gone. My parents were my roots, my past, you were the blossom of my future. I'm not sure I can grow without you. I'm not sure I want to. I'm not sure I can love a world that can be so cruel. But I love them. The little boy and the little girl. For them I live.

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