Pathetic

My darling Tiger. Today we collect you from your stay at the stables, to bring you home.

I don't think you want to come home with us. What tells me? Maybe it's the look of shock mixed with misery that crosses your face when you see my ancient mother carcass slowly dragging itself across the field.

My advance towards you comes as the steady beat of the tolling hour. Your shoulders sag and your heart heaves. Your time here, at the stables, has ended.

Here it is heaven. Here you are surrounded by keen, sharp-eyed girls who leap on horses. Spontaneous with life-spark, they up and bounce and stride and play as if this stable yard were a mere continent: a small skip away to the wide grass waves of galloping fields, where you can all frolic wild with horses.

For this week, you have joined these joyous people and their bright horse ways, and I know from that look of bewilderment that you forgot about us; enough not to send us a postcard from heaven.



Later, you will sit sullen in the car, or at home, misty-eyed and far away. I will jolly you along with prospects of return. And of your lesson - two weeks is nothing! - but you already miss the smell of Dust and Star and Mars, and yearn to be back here again.

If I could, I would use that. I would look at you, all fixed eyes and steely resolve. I would say Hey Tiger! Let's talk business! You want horse. I want maths worksheet. Let's cut a deal!

Of course I won't, because I am in thrall to your mournful eyes and shiny bottom lip. I know, compared to horse, that for you I am inadequate. Mother love now is nothing. Without silky mane and prancing hooves, I cannot measure up.

Weakened at heart, I search for the single glimmer of advantage, to plead, Tiger! Come back to me! Sure, horse can take you to the stars, but look! Horse cannot cook pasta.

Do not let this daughter thief near a saucepan.
If you do, I am done for.