Sanity: A Poem (sort of)
It’s a Friday night affair
I sit in the dark, listening to the sounds of revelry coming from the second floor
As my son joyfully reads with his father.
And when I say father, I always think MYFATHER.
Probably I should say Daddy instead. Which always makes me think:
When did I become that person that refers to myself as Mummy? Or Daddy?We are like super heroes, with alternate identities.
Mornings and evenings are a storm of “Mummy” and “Daddy”, this and that. Bums, diapers, bananas and very small pieces of cheese.
Maple syrup is a cologne. Sentences are short. Fingers are sticky. Evenings fill with wails of unrequited dreams and small limbs stuck between pieces of furniture.
The sounds of revelry and Daddy quickly disintegrate to drawn out syllables. I’m still here in the dark. Alone. Away from it all.
And these few minutes where I grab sanity, I make sure that I grab enough of it to make it last for the weekend to come