My children

Brenna at South Head (All the photos in this post were taken August 21 on Grand Manan Island, New Brunswick. Grand Manan was Brenna's favourite part of the trip.)


Friends say I’m happy when I talk about you, and it’s true. The quack shrink last summer said I should work hard so I can have enough money to buy a house where you can come and live with me. What utter crap! Working hard won’t bring you back, not that way. Growing children move into their own spheres, and we might never have times like this together again, even if we lived together. I see hardworking parents who haven’t enough time. My father was one. A rare gift of my broken life has been the luxury of time spent utterly with you.

I must turn away, for a season, from sunny beaches where we browsed for shells, from candy stores and bead shops, leisurely afternoons in distant places and strings of adventurous days back-to-back.

I hear the annoying voice of complaint begin to reassert itself. Not that I should silence it; that would be unhealthy.

But I want to fill my time with other children. I’m thinking of Tendril, Trent and others yet unborn, some more abstract and some less fictitious. I need to let them jangle in my ear, demanding nurture and attention, just as you would do.







Overlooking the cliff at South Head


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