I own a pair of glasses. Glasses that I, for reasons that even I am not entirely certain of, rarely actually wear. Despite the fact that I know that I can see more clearly when I am wearing them.
The world often appears slightly blurry to me. More so when I am tired.
I go to see Jessica perform in her nativity play. I lurk at the back, standing up so that I can see sheep number 4. I can't help but think that this may be a part reserved for those whose speech is . . . not the clearest. But maybe I'm paranoid. And her 'Baaaa' is amongst the most convincing I've ever heard if I do say so myself.
I stand and my eyes blur. The green programme names 'Georgina Walsh' - perhaps as a sheep, maybe a star.
A narrator? It's doubtful.
But in that world where she lives? Everything may be different and Jessica's speech is as clear as a bell. Perhaps she is out front, telling the whole tale.
But Georgina? She isn't a star. Or a sheep. She doesn't speak. She doesn't live.
She's dead. Still shocks me. I miss her. I miss my tiny, first baby so very much.
And I curse my slowness. Why so slow Catherine W.? After all this time?
Is it because you refuse to see properly? Silly, blurry you.
