My Bed

Monday morning dread.

I can hear them. Shouting, arguing, shrieking.

I’m hiding.

My bed, my lovely, snuggly bed.

Must. get. up.

Feels like I’m weighed down by the list of things that wait for my attention.

More shrieking. No one is crying. Yet.

My bed. A place of passion and conceptions and births and rows.

And lately, children visiting in the darkness. Tormented by nightmares and dreams they can’t explain.

The Saint sleeps in the cabin bed. Oedipus complex he says.

I remain in my lovely, warm, comforting bed.

The screaming starts. I’m up.

Shaking the duvet out I can still feel the warmth of where we once lay. I sigh.

“Mummy!” Cheeky Boy shouts. “Morning, ┬áMum” says Boy Wonder.

And the day begins.

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