sandcastle

"You are as stupid as each other!"

he shouts. My shoulders go up, throat closing.

Anger like heat off a car in the sun, I dread sitting in

his presence. Put his supper on the table

then don't know where to go. Out

in the middle of the night, what if the police saw me?

Regret listening to the football, the tension

of missed opportunities building. Yesterday

you told me, sounding all grown up

with your new, deep voice, "It's not your fault!"

But I remember my mum saying it was. My fault

as a child,  it must be my fault as an adult. Later

when he has gone to his bed, and I sit on yours, you say

"Why do people have children when they don't want them?"

and I say "You are brilliant! Things will be OK!" I feel like 

when you were little on the beach, and the tide

was coming in - you insisted we dig trenches, raise walls

and I didn't say anything as we worked frantically side by side

trying to stop our beautiful sandcastle being washed away. I miss

going to the beach. But you are too old for sandcastles, now

and I don't know how to tell you I love you more

than all the grains of sand the sea has ever made

and so does your dad, but he longs for the tide