He called in for a shower after being alone on the streets for a week.
Is that time enough to get ***** for a shower as a man nearly twenty-six in years. She could turn him away like her father’s sister might have and did. From time to time.
It all depended on how many times in a week, month, or year he would show up without a call. Without knowing he still existed.
Somehow, his presence and absence were a mixed blessing. His presence was like a merry-go-round that goes against the earth’s pull. Like a brazen thorn stuck into your shoe. Unpredictable. Vacuum-like. ******* all the ***** things in. Taking everything in its sight and power and making everything contort to his reality. Where he and only he resided. Would she open the door for him?
What she does know is that she might risk speaking in a bright happy voice of a mother so gladsome to see her son. Welcoming him in. Rather than turning him away because of his inconvenience. Grief is inconvenient. That is one thing she knows.
Notes on helping a mentally ill adult child. Copyright 2023 @ Highwireart
I picked her from the garden of Eden My sweet forbidden rose The petals of her thighs are a gift that only women have known I plucked her from the rose bush and felt a pain in my side A thorn had pierced me deeply and I began to cry I was destined to be connected to the thorn for life When sweet forbidden roses were my true desire I dropped her in the garden of Eden Along with my hopes and dreams Now the wound in my side is my constant reminder Of what could have been