Becky’s sulk face is adamant with indignation.
If she only knew how perilous it is to neglect the young.
…Our roles are reversed for the tale
of mum and dad and a kitchen knife,
which Fiona tells in sobs on the stairway.
Something I said has recalled her
feather streaked cheeks of pain.
and we go on up
to talk about
a tennis ball
turned inside out…
Becky speaks quietly
but her quiet voice banishes
distance like a shout,
“Josh, come back inside.”
Is this redemption, or merely the wisdom
of being old enough to know better?