Stream of Consciousness

It's like the rain in November. It continues to fall, and doesn't stop .

The Gloaming

Irish ancestors call to me
Rolling hills and first laughter
Smooth pebbles in a well-worn shoe
Breathe in and all you can smell is the ocean
Open your eyes to majestic permanence of green
Hold your heart close for it will break in two
As a siren whispers your name
At sunrise

© Catherine Woods 2017

Uncomfortable

I have not worn the peacock blue cashmere sweater that you bought me for Christmas. I could not tell you at the party because my mother would have caused a scene. And we both know she would put the blame on us instead of letting sleeping dogs lie.

The news was on the television when I came into the family room this morning. Another high profile male newscaster was fired for inappropriate sexual behaviour. You turned toward me and we both shook our heads.

Your mobile phone rang as we walked to the subway station, hand in hand. You rejected the call. I understood. You are not ready to tell her we live together and she is going to be a new grandmother next December.

Exiting the Nordstrom’s, we see our mothers together stopped at a traffic light, staring at us. I am pushing a stroller; you are wearing my peacock blue cashmere sweater.


© Catherine Woods 2017