Evening hour

The evening winds down like the springs of an old lithographed tin toy. The image is so fresh in my eyes only too soon to fade in my mind. A child now out of the tub as the other begs for another moment of play. "Not yet Wait Mom Hold on Not yet." She pleads for every moment to linger.

Their Father at play or work it may be as he types out the joy of his mind. He readies the "meds." instructs the boy with a gentle kind lesson on perma markers. "Yes Sir" the childreplys to a fathers pride and this mother humility

I the mother with iron beeping please press with me before i expire. Fabric on board cut and and readied for assembly. Finding myself so full of prose thouth my migrained head to rest a moment more, while strong medication eases the cranial storm.

My son with his Lego built ship admires his heroes those boys who inspired him to be and create. the joy of those feet as they fly like the wind giving sail to the ships of war. " What is the name of your shp I asked"? for its bad luck for it not to have one" With wise little eyes I am looked down to see my face and them He declare WE DONT BELIEVE IN LUCK! What are you chinese!

Little girl sweet is tubed and sweetly chimes in for her call and query all that is outside from the walls that surround her. Songs of juvenile chorus and voices that chatter as if their be a circle of friends bathing with her. She guards her treasures and choses what is right. Tomarrow she rectes her poem. The piece of sky with flow so well as her dress is half way sewn.

Golden and Chocolate close as in a pack they must be grooming a foot and still thier repose no voice not a bark it is the quiet of the day. Boardom of family meal finished not scoring a morsil resigned into another nights calm. Till "blue bone" comes into play, now life gits richer and tug-o-war insues.

Gold fish passed away today while children wept I torn asunder being pulled yet refused of any offer to comfort. Goldie was old and that is the truth of it sad. I see the tank that longed for amore attention and guilt pricks at my soul.

Its never enough being a Mother. We ware so many hats our hair gets mussed and yet we need the shade of every brim we are given. Will my mind grow dime and fad the lithagrahed spring that I hold so dear this moment ? Well if it does than just perhaps this moment was spent best recording the living.