Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

The sounds I hear this evening are of the footsteps of little boys, thuds from books dropping, clanging of tall beige blinds, opening or closing of doors, pages of books too, little boys reading out loud, on bears, about bears, that we question what we are doing here.

There are cups clanging, plates too, little boys now sighing, ripping and tearing up papers of free poetry verse about things orange, while keys from a little girl’s hand, lands on a table with a bang. With throats scratching, and a head aching, we know there are days to catch up on, days of wonder, and days of quiet surrender.

When these days end, our minds wander. Were we good enough, sharp enough, for the lives entrusted to our care. Some days we fail. Today was one day. As we lay in bed, in quiet surrender, spinning colors with littlest boy, wondering what it means to be good or fail anyways, the first spin lands on spin again. We sigh. This life sef. Na wa.