Mosaic Mum

Could someone please tell me what stars collided on or around 30 September 2012?

I turned 40.  And it appears that my inner constellation has completely rearranged itself.  To the naked eye the night sky of my life no doubt looks the same.

I still rush my girls out the door before 8:30am.  Still savour the fifteen minutes of MY music played as LOUD as I like on the work commute.  Still sit at my workdesk pushing paper.  Still fill myself up with too many coffees and come home to wash, cook, clean, worry.  Still try to ignore the wine calling to me from the fridge:  "I'm here - you don't really have to wait until the weekend!"

Yes, from a distance one would not notice the change.  But here I am, a self-confessed, fall-apart-if-I-don't, sleep addict, sitting directly under the heat pump, considering the family detritus around me with unusual detachment, barely noticing the clock pass midnight (for the second night running).  I scribble in the A5 Recycled 70% Notebook I've only known for a fortnight.  It has shared more intimate moments with me during that time than my husband has.  Many more.  It has given birth to nearly twenty poems.  Rescuing me from the embarrassing scenario of not having brought any writing paper to a writers' retreat, it offered itself to me like a sacrificial lamb.  The only one left in the facilitator's box of supplies.  Maybe it thus endeared itself to me.  I somehow had to repay the debt.

Ah, the imaginings.  Ridiculous personifications, farfetched analogies, stretched like a rubberband, nearly to breaking point...

I don't care.  I am writing.

Mosaic Mum

"What do you do?"  I hear, "Who are you?"  Twitch.
"A Mum at the moment."  Is that enough for you?
Silence.
"Have you had children?"  I turn it back with a smile,
determining the depths of understanding.

Myself, as this innocent piece of work,
crafted and decorated with care.

A sliding doors moment
before, intentional or not,
oops! Knocked.  Dropped.

A lifetime of patience (or not)
to fit back the pieces of me,
a work of art
in progress.


BY JEANETTE JONES