i dunno, Kat, you have options…. go for a walk with your camera, shoot the sky – look at it, it’s beautiful this morning, all red and purple? or you could watch a movie, like that Meryl Streep one about the singer with the shrill voice that Lynn recommended. or you could write something…? you haven’t written anything in a while. or maybe you could get your finger out and write a synopsis and cover letter for sending Life’s Rich Pageant to agents…? or you could play your guitar? you’re always bleating on about how your ambition exceeds your ability, well fucking do something about it… play. practise. play. or you could, of course, go back to bed with Alf, or just continue to mope around in this covid-era depression.
what should i wear?
well, i’m up now. teeth cleaned. i hear sirens. it’s all i hear these days. but hey…. is it cold outside? the sky looks pretty, but it is November now… i guess i should wear some warm layers. who cares? i doubt i will be leaving the house today anyway, and if i do i’ll be sure to stick a mask in my pocket. so sick of this…
coffee? d’you want a cup?
oh yes, please…. that would be great.
what time is it?
it’s 9.12am. why? what does it matter?
i guess it doesn’t matter because time doesn’t exist, does it? i mean, it’s just a human construct by which we cage ourselves. you should make the most of each day.oh… remember you have washing on… the cycle should be finished soon.
i guess so… so back to that question… what should i do today? it’s Friday.
… and we’re back to cages. why do we do that? put ourselves in these cages??
i think it’s so we can organise our days… and what we do with our time. for something that doesn’t exist, per se, it’s a precious commodity. much sought after… more valuable than gold, or data.
hey… Kat… the kettle has boiled!
ok… i’ll be right there. one homemade oat latte coming up.
[i get up from the comfort of the smaller of my two green sofas and slip into the kitchen. i rub my eyes. i check the washing machine. 10 minutes left.]
i’m tired. already…
[i take a mug from the mug tree and coffee from the jar. one scoop. i add cold oat milk, and fill my mug half full]
wow, that’s optimistic of you!
[i top up the mug with boiling water… not quite a latte but equally as milky – trying not to fill it ‘vulgarly full’ – as my late mother would say….]
Fuck. i miss her. but i am glad she’s dead. and not here at this time… she wouldn’t understand. Hell, i don’t even understand what’s going on these days… so much fake news, ‘bought’ news, biased and skewed. i don’t know what to believe these days…
[i take a sip of my coffee and return to my seat to find my cat, Alf, has taken up residency there…]
hey little one… shift!
[i give him a gentle nudge, he vocalises his displeasure with a little grunt. i love this cat. he’s my best friend]
so… Kat… what are you going to do today? will you publish this on your ‘inner focus’ blog? will you whore it around your social media pages?
publish and be damned! a wise man once said… was it Hemingway?
it may very well have been. so will you? i mean…. who would want to read this? it’s the ramblings of boredom.
i may as well. it gives me something to do. i haven’t written anything of worth in a while. this has been a good exercise. in self-discipline if nothing else…
self-discipline… something you haven’t exercised in a while. you’re the world’s greatest procrastinator. care to talk more about this?
what are you? my therapist?
yeah. i could be… but if you don’t want to explore these issues then that’s fine by me. i just thought, you know, while we had the time…
oh back to that again! time! yes. much sought-after time. i have lots of time so why don’t i want to make the most of it? what is wrong with me?
i think what you’re feeling is natural. i think a lot of people, in these strange times, feel the same. going through phases of having zero motivation. i think it’s uncertainty.
let me just enjoy my coffee, please? you know… sometimes i can’t stand being around you.
why’s that? because i speak the truth to you, Kat? you need to give yourself a shake – stop moping and get on with something.
sometimes it’s hard. sometimes i just feel so…. disheartened. dispirited. and i think ‘what’s the fucking point?’. everything is so superficial. nobody cares what i have to say, or write about, or sing about. nobody cares how i view the world around me, or what f-stop i used in a particular photograph i have taken. nobody cares. everyone is too caged, by their own periphery and public personae, to care about my little world. i dunno… maybe i should take a break from social media. it can be a toxic experience.
it’s a double-edge sword. you need it promote yourself…
ha! yeah. okay.
it’s true. you do. i think your imposter syndrome needs a brick to the face. i’m tired of hearing this. i’ve told you before – it’s completely natural, during these strange times of change and reset. a lot of people feel exactly as you do. and i think creative people ‘feel’ it more than most. emotions are in a state of flux right now for a lot of creative people, all around the world, not just you. you’re not alone.
so what do you suggest?
i think you should chill the fuck out. drink that coffee, go for a walk down by the sea to blow away this negativity. then return, refreshed, and pick up your guitar (either one) and finish that song you started a few months ago… the one called ‘i hate you’… pour all these feelings into this. it’s a great song, or has the potential to be… finish it.
right now, i wish i had a million quid.
wow… diversion tactics. you are one hella procrastinator, aren’t you? why? money isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on… it can’t buy happiness, it can’t buy health, or love….?
well it can actually, even if it’s just momentarily. i am just sick fed up being skint. i haven’t worked since February and i am tired of scrimping and scraping. wondering if i will have enough money at the end of the month. that dark day looming when i wonder what i will spend my last £10 on… top up my gas for warmth or buy food. and it will soon be Christmas. and you know how i feel about Christmas… fuck Christmas!
fuck… you really are in a foul mood this morning aren’t you?
yeah. you said it was normal. that i am allowed to feel these things. don’t you ever wonder how long it would take you to spend a whole million quid? i reckon i could do it in a few days, if i really wanted to.
yeah. i bet you could. i firmly believe you.
you make great coffee, by the way… anyone ever tell you that?
no. well, yeah…. but you’re the first to tell me that today.okay. so a walk along the beach?Better sort out that laundry… hang it up on the airer.
ach… i don’t know. and yeah… i will do.
[picks up Fender Jaguar and tunes it… cranks up amp]
maybe you’re right. maybe i should vent this anger and disappointment into that song….
you know i’m right!
i guess so… now piss off and leave me alone with my guitars and savagery.
that’s the spirit. you just have to keep creating… vent through your writing… your music. there has never been a time when you’ve needed music most. don’t be so fucking hard on yourself. please. it’s heartbreaking. give yourself a shake and fucking create something. do it for yourself and fuck everything else. but hang that fucking washing up!
once upon a time there were two little girls and, for a long time, they were inseparable. they spent all their free time together. they were the best of friends.
two little girls whose names both began with the letter ‘K’. two little girls with April birthdays, one a year older, K1, and four inches taller than the other, K2. two little girls in love with all things that 8 year old girls fell in love with then: roller skates, lip gloss, dolphins, puppies and ABBA.
two little girls who loved to sing. and sing they did. every day.
they called themselves “The 2 Ks” and, every weekend, they staged ‘concerts’.
K1 would save up her pocket money to buy every album ABBA ever released, or she would bribe her parents into buying them for her, by promising to tidy her room more frequently. soon the girls did, indeed, have every album ABBA ever released, and their repertoire was growing. they soon knew all the words to all the songs, by heart.
K1, being the taller of the two girls, with the fairer hair and stronger voice was, obviously, Agnetha. K2, being smaller with dark hair and a deeper, rich, velvety voice was, naturally, Frida.
the two little girls would rehearse almost every day or night when they had free-run of K1’s living room and her brother’s stereo, with speakers that were as tall as them. the TV would be turned off, the door closed and nobody was allowed to enter the living room until the girls had finished their rehearsals for their next concert. and every Friday or Saturday night, there would be a concert. each concert would last three to four hours, or until K2’s mother decided it was bedtime.
planning these ‘concerts’ began every Monday afternoon, after school, when the set list was prepared and decisions were made regarding who would sing what song. rehearsals took place all week with painstakingly choreographed dance routines. harmonies, and counter-melodies were worked out and memorised. by the end of the week they were ready for the next forthcoming show. costumes would be tailored to suit the theme of each segment: leotards with chiffon scarves carefully attached so that they moved like flames as the girls danced; silk pyjamas with grown-up strappy sandals; gypsy skirts with boob tubes, no boobs and boho beads; Bermuda shorts and shirts with bow ties.
tickets and signage were other important aspects of the shows that the girls meticulously prepared: signs such as “No talking or smoking during performance” were hand-drawn. K2 was particularly artistic. she would spend hours designing and colouring in posters, with a full spectrum of felt tip pens at her disposal. she would often embellish the posters with glitter or fresh flowers glued to them before pinning them up in obvious places: the hallway door, and the living room door – the entrance to their ‘auditorium’. tickets were issued the night before.
One of K1’s older brothers, S, was in a band and he would often set up an amp and microphones for the girls, to which more chiffon scarves were attentively attached. the volume dial was, after being set by S, strictly out of bounds. they were told not to touch it but the girls often cranked it up regardless – especially if they thought that their audience wasn’t giving them the attention they felt they deserved!
the concerts were all the more special for the two little girls with microphones. however, if K1’s brother had a gig of his own, then singing into their hair brushes would have to suffice. this happened on many an occasion.
every weekend K1’s house would be full of music and joy. the two little girls would sing their hearts out. a mixture of singing together and solo performances, while the other ‘K’ went backstage to slick on more lip gloss, brush her hair and sip some water, or to pet the dog.
to the two little girls, the concerts were real. in the wilds of their minds, they were performing in a stadium, in front of a crowd of thousands of screaming fans – not just singing along to records to an audience made up of their long-suffering mums, their neighbours, the neighbours’ kids and the dog, in a mid-terrace Council house living room.
these two little girls had feral, unfettered imaginations. for the duration of these shows, they really believed they were ABBA. An ABBA without Benny and Bjorn, however. their Bennys and Bjorns would remain invisible. they did, however, at one time ‘audition’ a boy to join them. the boy had huge ears and lived next door to K2. he was a firm friend to both girls but he turned out to be completely tone deaf despite the size of his ears (wholly incapable of singing any key played on K1’s piano, despite their best efforts to teach him) so they abandoned that idea, post haste. he would remain their friend, however, and was often bullied into being their compère for the evening, or invited to ‘mime’ the vocal parts of Benny or Bjorn, should that be required. for the most part, Benny and Bjorn would remain being merely the girls’ left hands, as the girls would practise their kissing on the back of their hands during the intermission. the tone deaf boy with big ears never got any kisses, but he lived in hope.
backstage, it was chaos. a trail of discarded chiffon scarves, thick tinsel boas, the odd ballet pump or long black velvet evening glove would leave a trail upstairs to the “dressing room”. once again, K2’s artistic skills were put to good use where a big Broadway style dressing room door sign, complete with glam gold Hollywood stars, would adorn the bedroom door. more scarves; fancy patterned tights, with one leg inside-out; kitten-heeled sandals; a pink hairdryer and curling tongs would be scattered on the floor of K1’s bedroom floor.
little pots of iridescent green and gold eyeshadow and loose translucent powder spilled over the dresser; lipstick kisses smeared many a mirror; skirts, sunglasses and furry hats were strewn across the bed; hairbrushes, that just happened to land spiky side up, on the floor would be hidden hazards to small bare feet rushing “backstage” to change costume.
and there were a lot of costume changes. every half hour, and that meant a lot of hairspray. it is no wonder smoking was not permitted.
but these two little girls could really sing. they sang with everything they had, belting out hit after hit. they sang with such emotion and raw power that their parents’ friends suggested they enter talent competitions, or apply to be on some televised talent show, join a theatre group or even write to Jim’ll Fix It.
but like all little girls, they grew up. by and by, the ABBA obsession ended as, eventually, did their friendship.
K1 went on to make her first real public performance as a vocalist singing with her brother’s band at the tender age of nine and a half. she sang ‘Daddy’s Working Boots’, a real heartbreaker of a song written by Dolly Parton, one time at a local Country & Western club. K2 joined the local church choir.
spending a summer under a belly of cloud is one thing (actually, it’s to be expected, i live in Scotland, after all) but spending a summer under a Government imposed ‘lockdown’ is not something i ever envisaged having to endure in my lifetime.
but here we are.
we are living history, in the present tense. and things are tense.
locked down, under house arrest. only permitted to leave the house to shop for ‘essential’ items and/or to partake in some form of solitary outdoor exercise – keeping a safe 2 metre distance from all other humans at all times.
with that said, i must’ve walked for miles.
life sucks right now. no work. no pay. having to claim benefits to keep a roof over my head and food in my fridge. but i’m not the only one. we have all been stricken by this… whatever it is…
“pandemic” they say.
this pandemic is serious, with serious repercussions for us all. life will never be the same.
but i have a lot to be grateful for. i have my health and my sanity.
while words like “social distancing” and “lockdown” were once upon a time confined to lines from some Hollywood script they are now in everyday use, uttered by five year olds out for walks in the park with their fearful masked parents.
i wonder (and worry) about the psychological effect of this new ‘norm’ and burgeoning fear being pressed upon us by Governments and the media on the children of this world.
A world where children can no longer play with their friends. A world where they can no longer hug their grandparents. A world full of rainbows in windows and applause, ringing out from the streets and gardens, on Thursday nights as we are asked to applaud key workers, risking life and limb, it would seem, in our hospitals and hospices.
we were never prepared for this. were we?
but ‘they’ knew it was coming. i’ve seen the videos of speeches from the world’s ‘leaders’ and their band of equally megalomaniacal aides. i have followed this with interest, impartiality, and, to some extent, fear and shades of cognitive dissonance.
i have followed the money trail and i’ve been sickened by what i have learned when digging deep. deeper than any mainstream government/Gates Foundation-funded media would ever allow. i suggest you do the same.
so many deaths. so many lies. lies and fake news. fake news and lies. conflicting statistics and contradictory statements from polarised camps of scientists and government lackies.
and rest-assured some people stand to make a fuckload of money from this ‘plandemic’.
but i’ve been a good citizen, i am doing what i’m told as i watch more and more truths unfold.
sitting on my doorstep, sipping iced tea i watch empty trains flit by; i hear birds singing, oblivious to it all; i hear sirens wailing and i watch as storm clouds gather overhead.
i see it. i see it all so clearly.
and i cannot believe what i am seeing.
but i will keep being a good citizen and keep doing what i’m told. controlled.
but this has changed me. i can feel it.
this will change everything. i know it.
our lives will never be same after this and the smoke clears.
i watch as the world, our beautiful world, spins out of control, spilling and contorting into a dark and terrifying place to be. this is year zero.
is there hope for the human race, or are we marching closer to engineering our own extinction event? sometimes, i hope so.
the way things are heading that may not be that far away, or as far-fetched as you may think. again, dig deep. check sources, who is funding what articles, actions, and casting what aspersions.
open your eyes. question everything. follow the money. don’t believe everything you read in the paper, or see on BBC etc (remember, they were complicit in the harbouring of paedophiles for decades).
it’s hard to know just what is real, and what is spin for profit and power.
all we can do is hope. hope one day love will prevail and the sun will return to our skies and unite us as a species.
and one day, Orwell will be considered fiction again.
i mean this in the nicest possible way but i am glad that you’re dead.
i am glad that you’re not around any more. and here’s why…
i am glad you are not here, struggling and alone, in this new and worrying ‘reality’ or ‘regime’ we now find ourselves locked firmly down under.
i am glad you’re not here as this new way of living would terrify you. it would defy you, deny you of your independence and the canny, simple and loving life you once enjoyed. and you could never do the whole social distancing thing. you loved us all too much.
i am glad you are not here, in the beautiful rural family-run care home that you, sadly, had to spend your last weeks in. i am glad because at your age you would have, most likely, fallen prey to this COVID-19 virus that is sweeping the Earth. this, with the added confusion and isolating delirium of Alzheimer’s and advanced vascular dementia, i am glad you’re already dead as this would have been even more terrifying for you. in isolation. and i would not have been able to have held you close, as you slipped away.
you would have been a real nightmare, mum. a real worry.
either we would not have been able to ‘contain’ you, in your little house. you were stubborn; or you would have been worried to the point of hysteria, reading daily newspapers and watching the BBC. choking on the fear. calling us countless times a day to ensure we are all safe… and still breathing.
… and can you believe that bumbling blond buffoon that you once used to laugh at is now running the UK, and making a real cunt of things like you once, jokingly, predicted?
you would hate this new regime, mum. not being able to visit family, neighbours and friends. and not having visitors round for a cuppa tea and a carry on! i know, it would kill me not being ‘allowed’ to visit you. you would be considered one of the vulnerable ones. a high risk.
in a sense, you have been protected from all of this. but who knew your death would bring relief at this time for me, and my brothers and sister.
i miss you, mum. don’t get me wrong. i miss you so bad some days, the pain as raw as it was that Sunday evening in July 2017 when your heart stopped beating beneath my hand…
… but today, like yesterday and the day before and the day before that, i am glad you are not here.
do you dream? of course you do. everybody does. i’m not talking about having dreams, per se, like MLK. i’m not talking about visions, ideals, or aspirations. we all have those too, to a greater or lesser degree. perhaps we have dreams of winning the lottery; dreams of becoming famous; dreams of a better fucking world… yeah, we all have those.
i’m talking about the dreams we have when we are sleeping. you know… the strange mind movies in which we find ourselves cast in a leading role; the weird worlds we frequently find ourselves immersed in, in the hypnagogic state; the queer and fractured alternative realities we all too often wake up from. as ocean-eyed teenage pop phenomenon, Billie Eilish, once asked of us ‘when we all fall asleep, where do we go?’
i have often wondered that myself, Billie.
three nights ago, i had the strangest dream. a dream that felt so real and, most importantly, one i was able to recall in vivid detail.
having studied psychology, i know what dreams are. but what comes of that? why this? shall i share it with you? feel free to comment.
it starts with the sound of a voice. a male voice. speaking in English. it sounds like a broadcast. as i become aware of my surroundings, i realise it’s coming from the car radio and i also become aware that i am behind the wheel of a large beat-up old Army Jeep. it has no roof and it is left-hand drive. i seem to be driving across war torn terrain. i think i am heading towards a city, or what remains of a city, rather. one i know not to be from my native Scotland but what appears to be (from the road signs) somewhere in eastern Europe. my gut instinct tells me i am somewhere in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
the man’s voice breaks on the radio, and he sounds distraught and terrified. it’s a live broadcast. an update. he is telling the people of the world that planet Earth, our home, is going to stop turning at 1600hrs. i glance at the time on the car’s dashboard. it is 15.49. i have 10 minutes left of life as i know it.
i come to a derelict building with vines and trees growing up and through the rubbling masonry. i stop the Jeep and get out. the sun is shining with a new found ferocity. my bare face and arms are burning in the heat. i look up at the white sky, searching for any other sign of life and feel my eyes burn. it feels like they are blistering in the sun’s wave. there are no birds in the sky today. i venture inside – hoping to secure shelter here. the building is merely a shell, no roof, no window panes and a ivy-clad stairway leading to nowhere. the walls are broken and blasted. huge chunks missing, like monster bite marks, from the building where mortar bombs and scud missiles sought to destroy its one time beauty and prestige. i walk through a gnarled door way and see what’s left of one room. a space that offered some kind of haven. some kind of protection from whatever the rest of me was soon to be faced with. the room was rather odd. there were, literally, hundreds of violin bows hanging from what remained of the ceiling, swaying in the breeze. no music.
suddenly the earth began to shake and scream. scream. a sound coming from God only knows where, stunned me, and violently threw me to the ground. i covered my ears. it was deafening. otherworldly. it sounded like the Earth herself screaming in pain, in the throes of her agonising death. and then it stopped. everything went black. just as if someone had pulled the plug on life.
shaken and terrified, i slowly stood up and peered through the dark towards where i had abandoned the Jeep and saw, to my surprise that only this half of my surrounding area was now in darkness.
this must be it, i thought. the world has stopped turning.
the world had stopped turning. and the screaming din had stopped. there was now an uncanny silence. a silence i had not heard before. but strangely, over to the west, and what looked like a 30 minute drive away, there was sunlight. daylight.
i got in the car and drove towards the light.
words/concept/dream (c) Kat McDonald 2019
should i embellish upon this, continue the story? as a book?
they say a storm is coming. this may very well be true. and although the sky is the perfect shade of blue, clouds are gathering fast. rain is in the air. i can smell it.
the concrete step feels warm beneath my bare feet. the sun is coy and toys with me, playing hide and seek amid the cloud formations. but there’s a restlessness in the air. i can feel it in my hair.
it is friday. 3.15 in the afternoon. it is supposed to be summer. that’s what the calendar states. summer solstice. the longest day.
and it has been the longest day. nothing seems to have gone to plan today. what is today, anyway? what is time if nothing but a human construct to organise our lives by? i feel like i am waiting. waiting for something to happen.
i sit on my doorstep with a cup of coffee in one hand and an abundance of time in the other. i watch the trains go by. there’s something beautiful in their ephemerality.
i marvel at the tiny flowers, violet and yellow, growing up through the cracked and spawling concrete steps up to my home. such unexpected beauty. such unexpected strength for something so small and seemingly delicate.
my thoughts turn back to a time when i had a medieval castle on my doorstep; to another time when i had a beach. and now, it would appear, i have a garden. a wild garden with wild birds and butterflies. a wild garden fringed with an abundance of cherry-red lanterns of the fuschia bushes growing down by the railway tracks, tall spikes of purple and white digitalis salute the pathway, and a lone Himalayan palm tree sways in the breeze. there is also a mysterious outbuilding hidden amid the trees that overhang my overgrown lawn. i think i may have a key for that… a big old rusty key.
maybe i should seek the services of a gardener. the lawn grass is almost waist high.
the sun, when she shines, warms my face and shoulders. i close my eyes and listen to the sounds of this supposed summer: trains, chattering birds, distant music from someone’s transistor radio and people in conversation.
i open my eyes. squinting, i follow the voices, momentarily sunblind. it is my neighbours, John and Jess. they are an elderly couple and they are talking to their gardener. their garden is perfectly plotted geometry. the precision of its symmetry whispers a sense of order and calm.
“shall we plant delphiniums? i just love delphiniums”
another train rolls past. taking that moment with it.
i look at the wilderness of my garden. it screams chaos.
i shiver as the sun shies away behind a big black cloud, clearly overshadowed – or so it would seem. the air is cold. too cold for a storm, i think.
petrol blue and white magpies chatter with one another, swooping from telegraph wire to tree top, and back again. even they seem restless.
the gardener fires up his lawn mower. it splutters and starts, then growls loudly as it cuts up the grass. the tiny green blades are no match for those big steel ones. i watch him walk back and forth, steering the grass-cutter, turning their garden lawn into a chess board. the smell of cut grass is pungent.
the sun, having burned through the cloud, is hotter than before. it is almost 4.
i tiptoe down the hot concrete steps to the dry stone dyke that divides order from chaos and start up a conversation with the gardener.
for £30 he will cut the lawn and square up the edges, he says.
not posted anything for such a long time. since the death of my mother, i’ve thrown myself headfirst into my music project with my love, Robert.
together, we are called Pilgrims. we have just finished our second studio album, Tundra, which will be dropping in all major download and streaming platforms on 21st May 2019.
be sure to watch for it…
we also have a 2-hour radio interview / album preview on Sunday 19th May at 1900-2100hrs (GMT) with GEE FORCE, on Bridge FM, 87.7fm – be sure to listen in… hear all about our songs, their meanings and origins. international listeners, and those outwith the 87.7fm range can listen in on Bridges FM >> CLICK HERE <<
all that remains of you rests in a green cardboard box:
6″ x 9″ x 6″.
your name, printed on a generic white sticker,
with a number and a date:
the date we set you free
by fire –
and all that remains of you now rests, with me, in a box by my bed.
a green cardboard box.
you weigh less now, but you are, surprisingly, heavier
than i anticipated.
i didn’t know what to expect, to be honest, when i got the call
to come and collect you.
but you were given to me, gift-wrapped, like a present.
gift-wrapped in a silver bag, with silver rope handles:
like a belated birthday gift.
having you, for my mother, truly was a gift.
with my brothers, i will scatter
what’s left upon the graves of those you lost long ago:
your lover and your son,
just like you wanted, Mum.
but, truth is, i am finding it hard to part with you.
so long as i have you, in this little green box,
you remain a part of me.
but, part we must.
i cannot hold onto these fragments
of bone and cinder
– that were once strong arms that held me
– that was once a beating heart that loved, unconditionally.
i must let you be
and scatter you to the breeze
and set you free.
i must learn to breathe for myself.
some days, i feel like i am drowning,
in my own loss and self-pity.
Sundays are the hardest days to bear
because i was there that Sunday,
when you gave your last breath back up to the sky
– do you remember?
i saw the light in your eye
turn off, like a light,
leaving my world a whole lot darker,
despite the sunlight.
i was there, with you, with my hand on your heart.
i felt it stop.
part of me died with you.
oh the pain of physical severance.
our umbilical cord, cut.
i know Death is not the end.
i know you walk with me.
i know you have stopped by… i know.
i could smell your perfume.
and i heard you, rattle my cup!
but i cannot keep you here, comforting as it is, having you close.
i must set you free.
i must let you be: be with Dad and William.
it’s the one last thing i promised you and
it is time.
time. we always think we have time.
truth is, there is never enough time.
time. my past, my present and my future:
all in one little green box.
time. it is all we had.
they say, in time, it becomes easier…
… this… breathing for myself.
i hope so
because sometimes i feel
like i am weighed down at the bottom of the ocean.
(c) Kat McDonald – September 2017
Rest in peace, Mum.
My late mother – on her 91st Birthday! 7th June 2017… she passed on 16th July 2017.