Coincidence
or no, it was the beatitudes she’d been reading when her son’s voice
interrupted, imparting all its grounded doubt of what she assumed was the
wronged infant conscience.
She’d
been aware of his irritation, the jittery bridling made manifest in his tearing
and shredding little handfuls of grass from the slope upon which they sat at
the far end of the park, waiting on the numbers of children to thin out enough
for her to allow him loose upon the fixtures, the swings his current favourite,
and his mood exacerbated by the long-sleeved shirt she’d had him wear on such a
hot afternoon.
But
she was wrong, and it was something else.
Skunk
(bent over and ripping grass from near his foot): What if God doesn’t know what to do next? Or what if he
forgets something? What will we do
then Mummy? What will we do?
