A green tree, a pink tree,

a bird house, manure and daffodils.

A beautiful speckled bird on the slop of a roof

it flew away from me and made a cheery chirp.

I could see red feathers on its underwing

a white pom, pom  plume  in the middle of its back.

I thought that was so beautiful that the two of you took the house because of the pear tree in the garden. I saw the picture and knew that was all I ever wanted a tree that blossomed and swings for my kids to play on. I would bring my tea out to the garden and sit in peace and sip my drink . My ideals are shattered as I struggle to find a voice that says,’ hey back off mother’. This is me and I have to write me.

When I was growing up there was a blossom tree next door and every year pink petals would fall all over green grass. The pink petals, touching the green grass slightly as if in remorse for the inconvenience of falling. Then the new neighbours came and cut it down and all that was left was a stump. Maybe they never knew about the falling blossom, I remember both know and can see the grace in the fall and the violence of the cut.

My mother said, ‘don’t you dare cry.’  but the loss of innocence was just too much. I became very  ill and never shed a tear or told a soul about what I had witnessed. She put me in bed and left.

I did see my mother through a crack in the curtain, she stood in the carpet of pink and green and held in her hands a heart she squeezed tight and held it up high. as if  in triumph.  The blood trickled down through her clenched fingers forming riverlets on her hand that gathered and ran down her arm in dark tears.  she caught my eye and I hid behind the curtian.

I will write a thousand words in correct form, using proper tense and share them all on the world-wide web. My words will fall  everywhere like the blossom petals and each word will touch many hearts.

I have opened  the Pandora’s box of mother.

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