On Saturday, the boys are feral so I walk and they ride their scooters down to the milk bar. We live at my mother’s. She is in the hospital today. More check ups. One of my boys falls. I apply a bandaid. We buy icy poles and journey a path we are yet to take. We cross the bridge. We sit and polish off our icy poles. The colour of prickly grass is yellow lime. Gums lope, their leaves dripping in the almost heat. Climbing frames are being devoured by gripping feet. We leave.
The path winds back. Oh joy. I find a leaf, shaped naturally in the thin shape of a heart. My chest swells. I show my boys who think I must have tampered with it to be that way. It has such a perfect edge, I say, how could it be anything but natural?
Soon after, I help one son with his helmet, but as I do this, my leaf heart breaks.
On another day, I would not cry, but today is one after so many of not living in the home my boys and me cherished, of not seeing our once-local friends, of not being able to walk to school, of not being able to spend an hour together on our own in out daggy dark kitchen, them doing homework and me cooking. I cry.
Don’t cry, my big boy says. You’ve got your memories.
Wise words from one so young. What a lucky mother, to have a son so compassionate.
I try to remember what our future might be.
diane simonelli 