Tag Archives: mother
He pushes a bright red, plastic train on wheels. A blue dummy hangs from his mouth. He smiles at his mother as she bends down to remove it. Stiff-legged with the newness of walking, he toddles up the gentle slope.
He sits on his mother’s lap, facing out. Gazing around the room, fascinated, he fixates on a toy in the middle of the floor. As she rocks him from side to side, his head moves too, snaking in time with … Continue reading
She stands in the queue with her two daughters, a look of frustration on her face. Her children pester her for the brightly coloured goods placed at their height. A world of temptation designed for them, which simply exasperates her.
Pink and frilly, it is perched on top of a laughing father’s head. It’s owner is behind him, carried in her mother’s arms. She giggles and snatches at it with her little baby hands.
Taken from the oven, it hisses gently. A miraculous mix of eggs, sugar and fat. The knife slides in and out cleanly. A cake for my mother, who first gave me the gift of baking.
Five young brothers sit, shivering, in a damp and dirty cave. Like baby birds their gaze is fixed, hoping for their mother’s shadow to fill the glowing entrance. Instead, they see a cameraman, intruding on their frozen vigil, hoping to … Continue reading
The woman carries a bright red plastic sledge, the ridges on its base white with snow. From behind her skips a little girl, dressed head to toe in pink. She stops dead and turns towards her mother, then falls straight … Continue reading