Some Times

White background with black text which reads, Sometimes this is too much. I’ve known you the longest, I said last week. No, you both replied, we were together first. I’ve been a parent as long as your dad. I’ve just been at home more. I had a studio when you were born. A collaborative space full of women. Before you finished feeding from me my corner of the room was gone and all my work returned home. You won’t know what to do with yourself now the boys are at school, people said. Your first day at school, was my last first day at school.White background with black text which reads, I retrieve the thoughts burrowing into my bones and start again. I record myself on my phone whilst driving, walking, and in the bath. I make sculptures on the kitchen table between meals and write notes on scraps of paper. When you were in year one, I pressed my watch into the palm of your hand and told you I’d be back at the end of the day to collect you both. Your teacher chastised me with, He played with the watch all day you know. I straightened my spine and said, but there was no screaming or tears? We watch television programmes of people building their houses. You like the construction animations and I like the personal stories the buildings unearth. I like a hobbit house built from straw bales, covered with horse manure and mud. The woman’s only tools are ladders, a hammer and her horse and cart.White background with black text which reads, She demands everyone walks carefully so they don’t stand on the brambles or nettles, which she presses with apples to drink. You stopped going to school in year 5 but your brother is there. We have to do the school run and keep an eye on the time. In the pandemic I got a studio. We go there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We buy plants on Wednesdays and work from home the rest of the time. It takes 40 minutes to drive to the studio. We listen to audio books that you’ve read in paperback several times. Greek Myths. You point out that the narrator sounds bored and correct their pronunciation. I try to focus. We don’t talk very much in the studio as our voices carry over the walls, but when we go to the co-op for lunch, words tumble with our footsteps across the bridge.White background with black text which reads, The ground feels heavier here, you say standing above one of the support pillars. It’s the safest place to stand if the bridge collapses. The MRI machine is very loud, as if my head is submerged in roadworks. I’ve forgotten to ask if I have to keep my eyes open. I decide to close them. The knot in my chest is vibrating like a pan on the cooker trying to boil. Of all the possible reasons and outcomes, I pick the worst one. The machine is looking for weak bones, osteoporosis, a possible side effect of the contraception I used for 20 years. It takes a month for every year of a relationship, to break up, I was told. Two years and one pandemic later I believe this is true. Our garden is a collection of conversations made physical. Patchworked shades of green broken up with purples, pinks, whites and yellows.White background with black text which reads, When we walk through town, I notice the adults watching you twist and spin. Your oblivion to them frees your limbs from your sides. In the counsellor’s converted stable words are wrapped in musty dampness. The heater blows hot air but the walls are cold. When she brings out felt tip pens and large sheets of paper, I cross my arms and legs. They’re quickly put back on the shelf. In five minutes, this will be easier, I repeat this until it’s true. Eventually is such a long word. Remember when you got me to do lessons after leaving school? Yes, I’m sorry, I’m learning too! And I will make more mistakes. You sit at my desk with your headphones plugged into your laptop. I draw on the walls with charcoal and mould body parts from clay. We work in silence and look forward to lunch.White background with black text which reads, I AM ENOUGH I write this at the top of my notes for public presentations. Astronauts do not float. They are suspended in perpetual freefall. You pulled your mattress onto the floor outside our room and slept under a velux of stars. Each night, for a year, closing the gap between falling and landing. From our garden we can hear the hum of the motorway. A distant warning like departing bees. A few summers ago, you ran into the house and said, there’s a black hole outside and it’s coming to get us. I can hear it. I’m not used to falling, each time it’s a shock.White background with black text which reads, What if bones die like coral? That exposure to the surface bleaches them. Can we listen to their colour? When I mention collaborating for an exhibition you jump with excitement but this is a fragile contract. We work side by side, I do not edit your work. The curator mentions painting the walls bright colours. I request your work is not shown on or near red. You’re home schooling? There’s no quick answer so I reply, we’re working together
White background with black text which reads, Sometimes this is too much. I’ve known you the longest, I said last week. No, you both replied, we were together first. I’ve been a parent as long as your dad. I’ve just been at home more. I had a studio when you were born. A collaborative space full of women. Before you finished feeding from me my corner of the room was gone and all my work returned home. You won’t know what to do with yourself now the boys are at school, people said. Your first day at school, was my last first day at school.White background with black text which reads, I retrieve the thoughts burrowing into my bones and start again. I record myself on my phone whilst driving, walking, and in the bath. I make sculptures on the kitchen table between meals and write notes on scraps of paper. When you were in year one, I pressed my watch into the palm of your hand and told you I’d be back at the end of the day to collect you both. Your teacher chastised me with, He played with the watch all day you know. I straightened my spine and said, but there was no screaming or tears? We watch television programmes of people building their houses. You like the construction animations and I like the personal stories the buildings unearth. I like a hobbit house built from straw bales, covered with horse manure and mud. The woman’s only tools are ladders, a hammer and her horse and cart.White background with black text which reads, She demands everyone walks carefully so they don’t stand on the brambles or nettles, which she presses with apples to drink. You stopped going to school in year 5 but your brother is there. We have to do the school run and keep an eye on the time. In the pandemic I got a studio. We go there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We buy plants on Wednesdays and work from home the rest of the time. It takes 40 minutes to drive to the studio. We listen to audio books that you’ve read in paperback several times. Greek Myths. You point out that the narrator sounds bored and correct their pronunciation. I try to focus. We don’t talk very much in the studio as our voices carry over the walls, but when we go to the co-op for lunch, words tumble with our footsteps across the bridge.White background with black text which reads, The ground feels heavier here, you say standing above one of the support pillars. It’s the safest place to stand if the bridge collapses. The MRI machine is very loud, as if my head is submerged in roadworks. I’ve forgotten to ask if I have to keep my eyes open. I decide to close them. The knot in my chest is vibrating like a pan on the cooker trying to boil. Of all the possible reasons and outcomes, I pick the worst one. The machine is looking for weak bones, osteoporosis, a possible side effect of the contraception I used for 20 years. It takes a month for every year of a relationship, to break up, I was told. Two years and one pandemic later I believe this is true. Our garden is a collection of conversations made physical. Patchworked shades of green broken up with purples, pinks, whites and yellows.White background with black text which reads, When we walk through town, I notice the adults watching you twist and spin. Your oblivion to them frees your limbs from your sides. In the counsellor’s converted stable words are wrapped in musty dampness. The heater blows hot air but the walls are cold. When she brings out felt tip pens and large sheets of paper, I cross my arms and legs. They’re quickly put back on the shelf. In five minutes, this will be easier, I repeat this until it’s true. Eventually is such a long word. Remember when you got me to do lessons after leaving school? Yes, I’m sorry, I’m learning too! And I will make more mistakes. You sit at my desk with your headphones plugged into your laptop. I draw on the walls with charcoal and mould body parts from clay. We work in silence and look forward to lunch.White background with black text which reads, I AM ENOUGH I write this at the top of my notes for public presentations. Astronauts do not float. They are suspended in perpetual freefall. You pulled your mattress onto the floor outside our room and slept under a velux of stars. Each night, for a year, closing the gap between falling and landing. From our garden we can hear the hum of the motorway. A distant warning like departing bees. A few summers ago, you ran into the house and said, there’s a black hole outside and it’s coming to get us. I can hear it. I’m not used to falling, each time it’s a shock.White background with black text which reads, What if bones die like coral? That exposure to the surface bleaches them. Can we listen to their colour? When I mention collaborating for an exhibition you jump with excitement but this is a fragile contract. We work side by side, I do not edit your work. The curator mentions painting the walls bright colours. I request your work is not shown on or near red. You’re home schooling? There’s no quick answer so I reply, we’re working together