Ash by Steve Goodlad

“Look out, here she comes.” Said the midwife as the vice-like pressure on my hand increased and before I submitted, I heard your first cry. Wires and tubes sustained you in a Perspex bubble, until your strength grew and we took you home.

It was your way or no way from the beginning, a bundle of untameable fury, fists clenched, you versus the world and you said bring it on.

“Look out, here she comes.” Said your teacher, anticipating another round of your opinion on the state of the world. You fought for justice as you saw injustice, not just against you, but any perpetrator in your view. More than once you were sent home from school and you simmered and seethed waiting for the right moment to start again.

“Look out, here she comes.” Said your main rival. You were marmite to his marmalade. Your following numbered less but you didn’t care. You knew you were right. You put him straight.

“Look out, here she comes.” Said the crowd at the student demonstration. You were always going to be an activist, railing against the elite, the big corporations; your nemeses.

The days were long, the years were short.

“Look out, here she comes.” Said the midwife as she delivered my grandchild. She was full of vigour and you both went home the same day and began your new lives. You learned about your infinite reserves of unconditional love. She taught you more about patience than I ever achieved.

“Look out, here she comes.” Said your brother to the groom when he saw us waiting in the narthex. You looked me in the eye and words stopped at the lump in my throat. But you said: “Thanks Dad,” and took my proud arm and together we walked down the aisle.

Selected: Weekly Write #14
Published in Issue #29

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