That spring the twins had just turned five.
We were visiting Grandma and Grandpa in Canada,
Enjoying every minute with them,
Chatting and laughing, sharing stories.
AND – they had COLOURED TV!
One morning I awoke naturally,
My window was open to the street.
The neighbourhood was so quiet
You could have heard a footfall a block away.
I hung over the sill enjoying the fragrant silence,
Until there was a giggle
As the girls came around from the garden,
Fully dressed, apparently fed,
Happy as puppies.
God bless my mother!
The lady across the street
Came out for her paper on the front lawn.
The twins, assuming everybody was friendly,
Walked right over to say 'Good morning.'
I couldn't hear anything
But their body language was fluent.
They were all chatting with obvious pleasure.
Then Cyanne dropped something on the pavement
And said sharply, 'OH, SHIT!'
And the volume went up perceptively.
The lady remonstrated kindly,
'You shouldn't say a word like that.'
'Why not?' my child objected.
'Mummy says it all the time.'
OH MY GOD!
I pulled my head in from the window,
My jaw in my slippers.
'Do I really say it all the time?
Oh, I do!
How have I come to that!'
I got the message.
And I duly disciplined myself
In more ways than guarding my tongue.
'The best in them must first be the best in me!'
I have tried, really tried -
Still trying to this day.
That morning is a thorn in my brain.