No

Photographer: Daneel Ferreira.

Monday. Early morning sunlight

is a river of particles floating to the carpet

and, with a gentle smile, the mother looks upon

her daughter’s ash blond curls burning bright

and the red cheeks and the blue eyes

and the plumb little fingers slowly tearing

a glossy page from a storybook from her own childhood

and another page

and, slowly, another page

and, alarmed, she runs towards her, putting her arms

around her, kissing the red cheeks, and saying,

Oh, little one, how I love you.

Photographer: Magda Esterhuyse.

Tuesday. Early morning sunlight

is a river of dust particles floating to the carpet

and, with a gentle smile, the mother looks upon

her daughter’s ash blond curls burning bright

and the flaming cheeks and the blue eyes

and the plumb little fingers slowly tearing

a glossy page from a storybook from her own childhood

and another page

and, hurriedly, another page

and, feeling dreadful, she runs towards her, putting her arms

around her, kissing the red cheeks, and saying,

Oh, little one, how I love you.

Wednesday. Early morning sunlight

is a river of particles floating endlessly to the carpet

and, with a gentle smile, the mother looks upon

her daughter’s ash blond curls burning bright

and the flaming cheeks and the ice blue eyes

and the plumb little fingers slowly tearing

a glossy page from a storybook from her own childhood

and another page

and, persistently, another page

and in horror she runs towards her, putting her arms

around her, kissing the red cheeks, and saying,

Oh, little one, how I love you.

Thursday. Early morning sunlight

is a river of particles floating to the carpet in the family room

and, with a gentle smile, the mother looks upon

her daughter’s ash blond curls burning bright

and the flaming cheeks and the ice blue eyes

and the plumb little fingers slowly tearing

a glossy page from a storybook from her own childhood

and another page

and, with a grin, another page

and in horror she runs towards her, putting her arms

around her, kissing the red cheeks, and saying,

Oh, little one, how I love you.

Friday. Early morning sunlight

is a river of particles floating to the carpet

and, with a gentle smile, the mother looks upon

her daughter’s ash blond curls burning bright

and the flaming cheeks and the steel blue eyes

and the plumb little fingers leisurely tearing

a glossy page from a storybook from the mother’s childhood

and another page

and, looking her mother straight in the eye, another page

and, trembling, she runs towards her, putting her arms

around her, kissing the red cheeks, and saying,

Oh, little one, how I love you.

Monday the father returned home after work

and saw a clean carpet, the mother and the daughter

with her ash blonde hair together building a puzzle.

Tuesday the father returned home after work

and the daughter pointed to the dustbin, saying,

Shhh, look what Mommy did.

Wednesday the father returned home after work

and the mother was crying, but no one dared say a word.

Thursday the father returned home after work

and only after an hour the mother told the father what happened

and said, oh, but it was only by accident.

By Elizabeth Viljoen.

Should we as a community (the mother) just always forgive and forget, and turn a blind eye? What will happen on Friday if we don’t say,”No, this is wrong, this has to end!” Would that mean we love less?

Related essays and poems:

• Sibling rivalry (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• A love worth suffering (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• Frustration and respite (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• being rich (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• The Beauty of Imperfection (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• Tea  (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• Generations (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• Early light (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• A Perfect Ending (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• Grey (luhambo.wordpress.com)
• The Poetry of Being: A Friday Thought (luhambo.wordpress.com)

Photographer: Daneel Ferreira.

Tags: A Friday Thought, Editor's Note, Elizabeth Viljoen