Its Not Right

Its Not Right.

Late summer breezes sift gently on this dozy afternoon. I am not me, but feel just above myself, a bit apart. The chest is tight. A small child says.
     “It’s not right.”
The chest is always painful. It feels like a brown stone has lodged down low, deep left. So many bouts of Pneumonia; my Achilles heel when I was young.

The child in early morning sunlight looks frankly at her world,
     “It’s not right.”

The breath indrawn hurts, the out breath gives relief. Precious oxygen from the Sun’s processes gives life to the world around me. The child is there with her crazy hair and sleep encrusted eyes,
     “It’s not right.”

The games the child learned to play, to survive; to be acceptable; all necessary… enable her to understand the simple but complex nature of her own inner child who never really learned to play that tactful game.

     “It’s not right.” Uncompromising but honest to the core and pure. Paying the price of not bending with the wind as we must between birth and dust in order that we all can bear to live together.

The child looks at me straight – from a past that still spins the earth. She is a dear child, so hard the road she trod, in baby boomer days till she learned to compromise, change what she could and hopefully throw the rest to the wind, accepting her limitations.

I see myself so clearly; the eye shine; the small white face and scruffy white hair, standing wet footed in the early morning, rising as the Sun and just as light…no regrets at all.
     “It’s not right.” Mr. Andrew Peacock said and then went right back to the game himself.
Therese Mackay Feb 2004