Friday, March 21, 2008

At Home to Mr Shingles

My mother Esme looks old and ailing. I am pained by the stories in her face. 'Shingles' ought to be a playground game, or the name of a children's entertainer.

She hands me the tiny volume as I busy to leave:
Shakespeare's Merry Wives soft-leathered in miniature.

We both know why
, she says.

The job that saved her, all those years ago.

On the cover, four tiny words: The Play's the Thing.


Debbie said...

I do think our mothers could have been kindred spirits. Mine loved theater also, although she only performed in our local community theater. She was also no stranger to suffering and shingles, although she never complained or felt sorry for herself. What footsteps we are blessed to follow!

Richard said...

Keep writing dear friend.Even your short paragraphs bring me to tears.

Livvy U. said...

Yes, blessed indeed Debbie x

Love the photograph, R. Good to hear from you, it's been too long - but I'm surfacing now! xx

Marianne said...

Surfacing. Good. Shingles is a nightmare. You may remember that I blogged about mine last Easter. Things are different this Easter, but life continues to challenge and intrigue.