Short Fiction
When Will We Rest?
A fictional short story.
When will you rest? You wonder.
When will you put your feet up for longer than ten minutes? Imagine them comfortably placed upon a cushion, with that arch ache on a downward release? Imagine uncurling your clenched toes. What were they trying to grip onto in the first place? A strand of hair?
Remember those before them moments at home filled with boredom and waste?
When will you sleep the whole night through again? Or longer than a total of six hours. Counting up all the hours of un-asleep for a year, think hard and too long on the interrupted moments of minor (non)crisis in the night. You calculate 730 hours of missed slumber in a year — that’s 730 hours too many.
Now it’s restless sleeps because of them and not from a silly night out on the town. Look at you, you’ve blossomed from sprout to unstoppable wildflower.
When will you stop finding uneaten bits of food in places they should not be left?
When they’re five.
When they’re ten.
When they’re fifteen.
When they move out, you realise.
When will you not worry, thinking about them all grown? Out in the big bad world of corporate vampires and ghouls, because damn those bastards with their sucking the life out of … life itself.
Will your grown ones be kind and pure of heart, staying true to themselves and all that is held of value and dear — dear to you and hopefully to them too?
Or will they grin for a selfie and frown at the waitstaff, post for a like but never call their nanna, dance for clout but nought for fun and flirting? Will the age of self-interest and narcissism be all but an era talked about in society and culture classrooms by the time your grown ones take flight?
They’ll certainly keep you feeling young, making sure you stay awake — woke — to all the important news and trends.
Will they visit you often or forget you’re still there? Maybe a little somewhere in the middle would be content enough.
If they bring their own offspring around for tea parties with the stuffed, fluffy friends, do you think you’ll rest then?
There is no cause to wonder, parent.
Because you don’t really want to rest again.
