That Birthday

That Birthday

Again that birthday sneaks under my guard

and suddenly I’m thinking of my son –

my youngest son – and now again it’s hard 

resisting recollection. Once the sun

beamed in his youthful smile but now the man 

is a door closed, the child mere memory. 

His birthday’s coming. Will he think of me?

Just born, he lay naked in the crook of my arm,

gazing at his new world confidently.

Neither of us guessed its power for harm.

Sharing with Writers' Pantry #63 at Poets and Storytellers United.

A Troubled Relationship

 A Troubled Relationship

You’ve been out of my life now

for years already, but your voice

keeps telling me things in my head,

not from the bad times but the good –

when you were my pal as well as

my youngest. I like to think

those times were true (they felt 

and still feel true) but I know

not to reach out, not to attempt

in any way to go back, because

that boy is gone, and that young man,

long gone, and you don’t hear him now.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #60 at Poets and Storytellers United.

(Yes, I do mean the last line as as written.)

Out of One's Territory [Prose]

For the Pantry of Prose at Poets United this week, we are asked to write 313 words or fewer (excluding title) about being Away from Home. This one is 313 words exactly.

Out of One’s Territory

They met on a train. He was far from home, exploring the world; exploring a society very different from what he knew. 

She was beautiful. I’m sure he was charming; he could be. And she was bold, prepared to take risks for what she wanted. She longed to escape her restrictive environment. She proposed he marry her.

I imagine he thought it an adventure. Being the hero would have appealed to his ego. And she was beautiful.

I imagine she was desperate, and he her only opportunity. And he was charming. He’d have seemed financially resourceful.

He met the family. (They pretended it was a real romance.) Her mother was worried but acquiescent; her brother welcomed him as a friend. They married immediately. He was required to adopt her religion and change his name – though it was not a genuine conversion.

He had no income. He left her behind, seeking work in Europe – with little success. They managed a few reunions … back in Morocco … on a visit to France (her brother escorted her) ... He discovered he didn't like her much. 

She kept demanding he do as promised and take her with him. He claimed she was rude to his friends. I think by then he was looking for a way out of what he’d got into. Easy to be a hero in fantasy; less so when it gets practical. Mutual disillusionment! Soon, suddenly, he divorced her.

She was left there, not knowing what future she had – legally unable now, again, to leave. She talked bitterly of becoming a prostitute. She and I let our email correspondence peter out. So did her mother and I. We were no longer family.

My son discarded the religion he’d never really had, along with his impressive string of Muslim names. I was deeply glad of that at least, six months later when 9-11 shocked the world.