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Little fists pound on the door
like they are trying to break through it.
I imagine his knuckles bruised and swollen
like overripe fruit,
skin scraped away like a knee on gravel.

He screams out to me asking for a drink,
asking for a teddy,
asking for anything he can think of
that will get me back in the room.

Against my better judgement,
for I know I am being played,
I open the door.

Although I do not turn on the light,
it is as though I have flicked a switch.
The crying stops.
The pounding stops.
The temper abates.
And I am greeted with a sweet-voiced ‘hello mummy’.
And he gently asks me to tuck him in, ‘Please.’

Against my better judgement,
for I know I am being played,
I tuck him in,
whisper goodnight and
brush a kiss over his crocodile tears.
I leave the room and close the door.
I hold my breath and feel my nerves spike
as though with an electric shock
when he starts, again, to grizzle and get out of bed.
He runs crying to the door and
Pounds.
And screams.
And calls out to me again.

Against my better judgement,
for I know I am being played
I want to scream back at him.
And pound the other side of the door
until the pain in my fists makes me forget
How much it hurts to hear him cry.

 

© Lynette Washington