Forgiveness

Forgiveness.

Her mother had tried to set fire to the house while they were in their beds, they had said.

Only a young bairn when she was taken into care.

A care of sorts.

A fragmented care with limited love and little affection.

Temporary homes here and there, scattered like pieces of a broken puzzle.

Misplaced, missing and discarded pieces.

He, a previous Borstal boy delinquent,

‘Del boy’ wheeler dealer;

a determined inventor.

‘There has got to be cheaper way’ kind of guy.

LSD trip inspired;

Strict Baptist Preacher he befits.

Bipolar laced through and through.

Of the children there were four

unconditionally loved, unruly and wild.

The first a son ruthlessly brutal and untamed.

I, the second eldest, a girl.

Quieter than the first,

yet, a chatterbox still fighting to be heard.

A colourful and sensitive kind, an empath later understood.

Third and fourth came together - twins.

A girl, a feisty little 'lizzy gas bag' she was.

A boy, gentle and delicately sensitive, he felt more deeply than the rest.

"JAM SANDWICH" a child would roar.

One by one we’d quickly pounce, piling high on top of the other,

as a parent lay beneath a sea of squealing, squirming, giggling children.

“JELLY WOBBLER’S" we would shriek.

A child on each parent's back.

We’d wobble and tickle and giggle and chortle, trying to knock each off.

Long summers, bracken dens.

Digging up from the clay, old medicine bottles.

Baptisms a' dunking in the dammed up river.

Children splashed, swam and played,

kicking the stoned dam away.

Always home cooked foods and mum’s loving cuddles.

Church thrice on Sundays.

‘Eat and Pray' biscuits devoured.

In the parents bed - bible lessons before school;

we'd unwilling listen each morning.

Often late and embarrassed of our excuse.

Arriving in our scruffy home made uniforms.

The cane was used as discipline;

We children still ruled.

7 times we moved town,

Before I was even 10 years old.

Always new friends be making,

thank goodness for each other.

Our mum always home to listen, after school.

Resilient we became.

As we all settled in our final family home all together.

Something different grew,

four young teenagers, yes;

Something else too,

Sadness.

Anger rising.

Fighting.

The blood on the bathroom wall.

Our dad ‘the Preacher’

He had chose another

our mum’s ‘best friend’.

The abandoned children’s home girl came forth.

The night and daily tears on the pillow and floor.

Helpless suicidal cries.

Others could not listen.

“17 years” she would utter.

A housewife deeply wounded with four children to feed.

Was she 3 years old?

Was She 43?

The trauma wounds old and new opened wide.

Abandoned and fearful.

I was 14 years old.

The sensitive empath.

Feeling her pain in my own heart cracking,

weeping her sorrow.

No space for my own.

So much pain.

Not enough money.

How will we ever cope?

Our youthful play becoming a distant memory;

as the dark clouds stayed looming over.

Please come back happiness.

Joy, where are you?

The stolen daffodils came and went.

The grass grew with fresh dew.

The wind blew the autumn leaves.

A new day.

A new beginning.

A gentleman she met,

our neighbour, who would have thought?

He too, his wife had taken flight with his old friend.

They dated and mum laughed again.

A painter, an architect, a beautiful guitar player.

She and her four chaotic children.

He and his two shy children, seemed not to mind.

A Saint Valentines Day Wedding.

Laura Ashley floral dresses.

Drag queen style make up, we hurriedly washed off when no one was looking!

A relief for all.

Love could grow within the flowers again of a different kind.

A gentle tender love, that was not there before.

My brothers did not cope at first, It took them longer.

Their male role figures were not the same and neither will they ever be.

Rocking in their arms the left over pieces of crushed dreams and ideas that were not met by our father.

Their voices not heard, frustration rose.

Their rejected pain lay underneath.

Yet love did grow, the seedlings sprouted and the garden blossomed.

Happiness returned.

Camping trips of ridiculous laughter.

Music played and the doors were left open again.

A year or so had passed.

Our dad returned.

He had been ‘Preaching’ in South East Asia.

Old and skinny just like our grandad he became.

The ex-best friend had long gone.

A child remained.

His house here had been trusted to the wrong sort.

The sort that took heroin and sold all his belongings to pay.

Our dad seemingly,

had lost everything.

Not even his Fender Strat guitar remained.

We children stood.

Rejected still

Karma at last we thought.

Yet our mum, she rose.

They say "forgiveness is the smell of flowers when crushed."

She blossomed more beautiful and more radiant than ever before.

She and the gentleman, our step dad.

Hand in hand they held our dad.

They took him in, They fed him.

Helped him to get better.

Our dad, their lodger.

They cleared, cleaned and redecorated his house.

Our dad remorseful

He wept.

Open heartedly

Truly, Thankful.

Our mum she says she has her best friend back.

In our dad,

Forgiveness found.

The love in our hearts grew out from our wounds.

Shooting up into tangled arms towards the sunshine in the sky.

Another breath of relief released.

Thank you mum.

Through damage and pain, your tenderness taught us how to forgive.

All together we now play, dad comes for Christmas and birthdays.

He and his other children are always welcome to the flower garden of our mum's.

He plays guitar with our step dad.

We hear the laughter.

Thank you mum.