Parachute fires
On their way to the school bus stop
is this place he & his boys named,
an adventure of half-burned logs
opposite a river red gum stump.
His boys call the logs ‘the fires’ &
they climb over them, making up games.
He swings them in ritual from the stump
pretending they are parachuting,
spinning around around floating,
mocking arthritis that mocks him.
He imagines the tree in its prime
& as he pirouettes he glimpses
its dappled canopy in the days
before that boon, electricity,
the likely reason for its felling.
This morning he returned from the bus
to news, the death of a friend’s daughter.
She has driven her car over a cliff
& an aircraft has plummeted
from the innocent sky above New York.
He senses all these people sorrowing.
Now he must wait through the school day,
helpless hours of grace till he makes his way
by the Parachute Fires, to meet his boys.
There was no reason for today
being different, but his heart knows
happiness is brief, love harnessed to grief.
“I’ve discovered a small body in the bed can be warm and snuggly or cold and wriggly.”*
I’ve only ever been able to sleep in the same bed with my children when they were tiny babies, except for rare and golden occasions when they were snug, still and blissfully silent. Of my two boys, one is a terrible snorer and the other a terrible wriggler. I’ve always been known for my ability to stir from a deep sleep at the distant echo of a falling pin, so regular co-sleeping was never an option for me. But I do cherish the special times when it all works out and we both slide into a gentle, restful nap together. It’s magical – especially when a little hand grasps mine.
* From Being Mummy by Anne‑marie Taplin