You will thank us, one day. By Fionn Boyle

In between the laughs and stutters

Me and father slowly mutter.

In between the conversational clutter

Mother sits in silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Ah what a sound.

But it has grown ever so violent now,

Father breaks it with a broken word

Whilst mother’s words were never heard.

“C'mon Woman more, more, more!

This isn’t what I married you for!

What’s the point in me being deadbeat

If my wife isn’t going to be light on her feet!”

Mother, not answering, got more wine

“Ah yes one more glass should do me fine”

In attempt for the atmosphere to start anew

“In a world of ivy, I got a rose like you”

Then a silence. So ill and so cursed

Father read the headlines for December 1st

“70 Years” With more satisfaction than fuss

“70 years since Rosa got off that Bus”

And with the ironic sadness of his lip being curled

Father praised the hope of the new free world

Again

Again

With each word becoming more convicted and stronger

Mother couldn’t brush off the irony no longer

She looked to father in a self-determined way

And began to say

“Sweetheart you nearly had me in a dose

So, she is a hero while I am just a rose?”

My father looked startled at the noise

The harsh conviction of her sweet rose’s voice

“No, I do not have Lovelace Intellect

Or held a sword to the Empire’s Neck

But you need me, and so you should

For I am a mother

A wife

I am Womanhood

Father grew startled, and so was I

And as the twinkle came back to mother’s eye

“We are equal” A few moments, and then

“I’m sorry my love, I shall do so again”