I’m missing Herself.
She would know more than me about stuff.
Like girls growing up.
Or what to wear in this weather.
How to wear red shoes without being self concious.
I could tell her about the cute toddler in the pretty dress, or the beautiful handbag with butterflies I just saw.
She’d have the girls dancing for her and drawing for her and telling her all their important things.
I’d be looking for clothes for her, and complaining about the latest communication crisis.
I’d be texting the Brother a flurry of bad words as something incomprehensible and serious happened.
I’d be eating a lot of cake.
She’d be laughing at pink plastic wine glasses.
I miss my mum.