WHAT GOES AROUND
By Préachán
“Stupid child!
Wetting the bed at your age!”
The words stung more than the slap
across my face did.
“As if I didn’t have enough to be doing,
without having to wash your pissy sheets.”
The shame of an eleven-year-old,
carried as an invisible weight
down all the years of my life.
I pause outside her bedroom door now.
Hesitant.
Then push it open.
The smell hits me instantly.
“Stupid child,” my brain screams.
I look at the frail, fading body in front of me.
“Stupid child.”
I approach the bed, look down at her.
“I’m sorry, dear,”
Her voice like nails on the blackboard of my memories.
“I couldn’t help it.”
I reach down, help her sit up.
“Stupid child! Wetting the bed at your age!”
I want to scream it at her.
Instead, I smile and say softly,
“Let’s get you cleaned up, Mum.”