When it’s over. A poem by Fran Bardsley

Memory is a fickle mistress
Today, in my room as a tantalising ray of sunshine tempts me to break out,
I am confident I will go out more,
Make the most of my time in the sun
Savour each previous moment of freedom when it is returned to me.
But the nagging voice of reason tells me
I will soon revert to the old ways
To petty annoyances and minor gripes.
I will forget how much I craved the touch of human interaction.
I will waste my hard-earned privileges, just as I did before.

What then, will my children remember?
Will they catalogue each time I lost my temper; shouted; cried; failed them?
Will boredom and frustration prevail or will they find the magic of childhood
Hidden in the claustrophobic limits of a two-bedroom flat?
Will the unfamiliar words we strove so hard to master
Slip away
Or are they marked indelibly on their permeable brains?

Will they remember how I held them tighter than ever?
Or the love we rediscovered and renewed
More resilient
Tested, and found to be enduring.

But it’s hard to think about when it’s over
When it feels like it has only just begun.


A journalist for 10 years, Fran now works in marketing and PR in the education sector and writes as much as she can. Some older stories can be found here.

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