Plucked from the brain of the sleep deprived

"Hey love," he shouts.

I look around the empty car park, attempting to ascertain if I'm the addressee of his 'Hey . .'

I don't see anyone else in this godforsaken supermarket car park.

I raise my eyebrows at him. He looks cheerful.

"Hey love. Are you as tired as you look?" he enquires.

"Yes. Yes I am," I smile. "I've got two little ones."

He nods. "Yes, I know how that goes. If I wasn't finishing work now, I'd drive you home. You look so tired."

"Oh thank you," I say. "That is such a kind thing to say."

He's a cabbie. I suppose when it comes to consolation and solace, we all turn to what we do best. He drives. He sees a tired looking woman and thinks about driving her home. I wonder, briefly, what I could do to return the favour. Any data you need analysing mate?

And I am tired. I am as tired as I look. With my two little ones. With my three little ones.

But I don't mention her anymore. It's too complicated and awkward. Today I've told three strangers that I have two children.

I am tired. So tired that my bones ache.

Crumbly, chalky little frame trying to hold up the weight of baggy flesh that is me.
And the weight of a child that never was.

He is only trying to be kind, sympathetic.

Two children provokes a wry smile and a wink.

Three children?

Oh that would be one too many.
She's always one too many.

I get into my car. I smile. I drive off.

With my tiredness on my back.

***

Reuben starts nursery. He sets off with no backward glance. I push home an empty buggy. Ready to collect him in an hours time.

I sit in the silent house. Alone. It's odd. I'm hardly ever alone. I make a cup of tea. It goes cold. I sit.

I go to collect him. He squints at me from across the room. Registers. Then looks away.

I speak to the lady at the nursery. She says that it is as though he has been there for months. He has been trying to hug the girls. Snarfing breadsticks. Refusing cheese. Throwing grapes.

And my heart swells. I float up to the ceiling. At the vision of this boy. So unlike his mother. His independence and his charm.

His solid flesh. His life. His life that unfurls in front of my disbelieving face. All of this? For him? For me?

Yes. Yes. The sun winks. That kindly God. That smiles. Then looks serious.

But not because of anything you did. Don't flatter yourself love.

***

I am in the wardrobe. Putting something away, a cushion, a blanket. Folded up.

I glance up. There she is. Her ashes anyway. Not her.

In a plastic bag, in a box, under a giant badminton racket that I bought my husband for a present before she was even thought of, next to her twin sister's china mug put up in the wardrobe for safe keeping.

The ashes of the child that was Georgina.

I keep thinking about an urn. But, somehow, I never buy one.

***

I wonder what to do about this writing.

I seem to need to do it. Sometimes I wish that I didn't.

I'm writing here. Tap, peck, search, tap. 'X Factor' and 'Red and Black' blare in the background. Because nearly every house on this estate will be watching them and it would be strange not to.

My husband is in the kitchen fixing his Play Station.

And I know which endeavour I consider more admirable. I wish that I were fixing something.

Perhaps some things . . . just can't be fixed?

***

When I started this blog, I believed it would end at Reuben's birth?

Although I didn't know he was Reuben back then.

But it doesn't seem to be ending?

Is that a bad thing?