What was the rush. Pass the parcel, not him
again, he smells of B.O., I farted to get even with him, she smells sweet,
those sounds they make, gugu gaga aaaaah, you’d think I was an alien. The
comfort of mummy’s tummy a week old memory, pushy was getting used to being
born, the surprise he thought that was ahead of him, not quite the one he had
in mind. Mammy was a show off, I was the prize, don’t they know what a child
wants, warmth love and a gentle squeeze, if I make a sound they stuff a bottle
in my mouth, if I appear too hot, they race me to the doc, just can’t win,
pushy was tired and just wanted to sleep. At last, the house was silent, pushy
no longer heard voices, he returned to his pool of memories, the soft songs he
heard while waiting in mommy’s reservoir of love, and the chorus of angels that
kept him safe, while waiting to be born. Isn’t it true, when life gets on top
of us, we return to where we felt safest, usually where love was forthcoming.
Don’t the folks that distort love have serious questions to answer, ask pushy
if you want.
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