Blog -Spit Marks

Bought my husband  a new, well nearly new laptop for his recent birthday. I’m full of flu but wanted to post some of my poems.. I can’t rest the laptop on my tum alas it’s too rotund – so asked my hubby to pass me some cushions or pillows to lean on. He comes in looking sheepish.. he’s got me three pillows off my sons bed, in the bedroom that’s lain empty for a year.. the cushions still have his spit marks on from where he sucked his thumb.. even at thirteen he still needed that comfort.  I burst into tears, I cant sniff them, the flu has put paid to me currently smelling anything but they are in essence my son, in his favourite colours. Something so simple,  needing some pillows to bolster the laptop up and its so painful.


Living grief, disenfranchised grief, there are many names for it. All  I know is that when my father died, I grieved, I still miss him, but I accepted he was gone and that was life and its ebb and flow. With parental alienation, our children kill us off in their heads and we therefore have to try to kill them off just to survive. But how do you forget your own child? If you have the answer please tell  me, as I sit here typing, with tears wet on my lashes.







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