Erin

30-something mother, public servant, friend. Writer?

Shining up the polished glass, Reflections she can see- Two cherub faces bounding past, Squealing merrily. Their feet are light across the bed, Warm laughter, up and down; Her eyes refocus on the glass, Her wrinkles, pallor, frown. She’s seeking out the stubborn smudge the grime, the stained, the mess; She scrubs hard at the filth in hopes it will wipe out the rest. Her pursed lips thin, her tired gaze, Her hair a hurried bale; Her body is recoiled, rebelled, Once joyful eyes, now pale. Their loose young curls, their glistened eyes, Their joyful carelessness; Will they keep this youthful joy? Or ruin, like the rest. And with this thought, she starts again, Resumes her mindless task, Abandon useless reverie- Shine up the polished glass.

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She looked at the frozen block of mince, uninspired and frustrated. As per usual, she’d left it too late. She hadn’t remembered to pull it out of the freezer the night before, too harried as she relived her busy day over in her head. She had also forgotten that morning, too focussed on just getting out of the damn house to be thinking about dinner. She barely remembered to eat breakfast these days anyway. She forced the mince into the smaller half of the sink, jamming her fingers between the icy block and the faucet. Of course. She was just trying to keep it together, do something nice, and it comes back to bite her. She couldn’t remember whether the advice she had read was to wash it with warmth …

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