mdm

Mothers Mind I wake early to have a shower and see the clothes hanging over the back of the door. Apparently, I had placed them there the night before in some out of body space, where I have to remind myself to be present, to be here. They are all wrong, of course,  and so contrived and outrageous that I look like a caricature of a middle aged spinster,  the full skirt too long, the layers too much, the scarves trailing. “ Will you look at the get up of the one ?” I imagine them saying in the churchyard as they park their cars. The more I try to blend, to fade into the background, the more like a ragged bird of paradise I become. I wear them only because they are dry and ready and I do not want to have to tackle the hotpress. Again.   I share the car space with 3 men, the child in the back, the flowers on my lap. The Father is driving, The  Brother beside him, and Hewhomustnotbenamed stares out the window at the dappled fields in the biting cold. We ha