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The Weight Of A Mother's Fear
The boy by the pool is fourteen, I’m told by his mother.
I would not have guessed it.
Tall, stooping, shy, flabby, without any suggestion of muscle mass.
He must be ill I thought, but I didn’t ask.
I diagnosed his illness after a few hours of observation.
“Don’t go in the pool, you ate only an hour ago!”
“Don’t go in the sea, your father will be here next week”
“You can swim with him then, on a safe beach”
“Don’t sit in the sun”
“Don’t walk around in bare feet”
“Get changed that’s wet”
“No you can’t go to the shops on your own”
Wistfully the boy watches my eight year old twins.
Bronzed.
Well muscled
Happy
Catching crabs amongst the rock pools
Climbing
Jumping off the quay
Doing all of the things that he daren’t.
While his body buckles under the weight.
Of his mothers fear.
And he suffocates on the cotton wool wrappings
Of the world she chose for him.
