Our lane, outside our house, in blackberry season, leads me to remember the mother that I thought I’d be. You know the one: the mum who ushers her children out the door with baskets swinging on their arms…
To the Heart
It’s your own foot coming down on the rope that pulls it taut. It isn’t weight-bearing, until your weight makes it so. I know this from teaching aerial – the trick, if there is one, is to let go in order to hold on- in order to be held.
My father used to speak to the cat in German, his mother tongue, which he never used to address us, his children…Because the cat didn’t talk back – the cat didn’t know or care about the war, about Jewishness or citizenship’s lost or found. The cat just wanted bits of chicken….
What would make a difference? After the birth. After the book. What would help me to ease or avoid depression? I think there are three things.