The Best of Times and The Worst of Times.

Blossomtime

You open your eyes and your heart is flooded with hope. The sun is shining and the baby is  the sweetest little pea.  You get dressed in a hurry, casually thrown together, sunglasses perched on your curls and  emerald green metallic flip flops on your feet. You feel calm and happy and ok. Most of all you feel ok.

You and your babba sing along to the wails of James Blunt on the way to your favorite car boot sale, because in a fit of  "I will offer myself the chance to grieve for what isn't " you are drowning yourself in sad songs and "Goodbye My Lover" fits the bill right now in a way that only "I Will Survive" will hopefully do before too long...

The boot sale is buzzing with  old people  and their scrumptiously wonderful  boxes full of yesterday and you are  hopping silly giddy  from  one wonderful stall to the next amassing treasures for copper, flirting with very old men, and finally allowing yourself to  dream of a life less ordinary than what might have been.

You find more pieces to add to your BlossomTime collection, buy three deliciously pretty tins, a pillowcase embroidered with the titles of yesterdays songs, piles and piles of gorgeous household linens and a truly beautiful hand towel from a girl who invites you to her house to take your pick from treasures she must sell before she moves to Australia.

The baby is covered in ice cream and you are happy and you know it. And then you lose your purse, with your keys and the last pennies you've got in the world in it. But you don't cry because you are a brave, fearless Mommy and these tiny little battles are simply tests of strength you doubt you've got.

So you flutter your eyelashes at the ice cream man and you call Mark, the only other person in the world with keys to your car. And he says oh you are so ridiculous,  and what the hell is wrong with you, and no I can't come right now because (she who has no name) is ill and we are in hospital. So you think about sobbing and decide against it. You look at the black clouds above your head and the dispersing car boot sale all around you and you insist that he  brings those keys  RIGHT  NOW or else you may well lose your mind. Then you sit on the grass as one ice cream man climbs out of his van to clean up your sticky babba, while the other wanders from stall to stall  enquiring about your precious pink purse. People are so kind.  Recently you find yourself constantly astonished by it. Overwhelmed.   

So  you wait. And you wait. And secretly hope that she's suffering from something hideous and tell yourself off for having cruel thoughts and walk about with the baby on your shoulders so he can spot Daddy in the crowd.  And then he is there. In a shiny car. And he winds down the window and offers you the key, and you say get out of the car and talk to your baby and he says he can't right now, because he is already late for picking her up and he doesn't want her family to think he doesn't care. And you say GET OUT THAT CAR RIGHT NOW. And he says she is in hospital with the stress of all of this, and dear me little boy you are in a terrible mess and goodness isn't your Mother looking after you?

And then he drives away and you stand in the rain sobbing because you  saw  the hand tied, raffia wrapped white bouquet on the back seat of the car and all the  shabby little wot nots you've bought for yourself  cease to matter in it's reflection. And it makes no difference that the ice cream man has found your purse and he's very sorry but though your keys are still there whoever took it has stole your very last penny and who knows how you are going to manage now?

It doesn't matter. Because it is over. He's never coming home again.

They do not love that do not show their love.