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the fears we have

published: 2014-12-23

The portrait of my great-great grandmother above the fireplace. I was afraid of it. The TV stood against that same wall and so as you lay on the comfy pink couch under blankets, it was inevitable your eyes would wander to hers. Strict black bun, charcoaled gaze which followed you wherever you stood. My sister and I told my parents she scared us. I’m not sure they heard us. She wasn’t scaring them.
My son has been waking up too early and unable to fall back to sleep. He tells me the fearful thoughts he has. Of
The Scary, you know The Scary, mum don’t you?
And of zombies and spiders that suck on you and creepers with slime and yes I know what computer game all of that is coming from.
What else?
That statue of Maria.
He points to my angelic looking statue of Sta Thereza, her back is turned to us.
When I go to the toilet I’m scared she’ll turn around and show bloody teeth.
And what else?
That drawing I made, I wrote my name upside down and at night I think someone turned the letters around.
I take both Sta Tereza and the drawing away. But once we’ve grown-up, nobody takes our fears away. I look at the painting of my great-great grandmother. It isn’t so black but a dark-blue. And her hair is brown. Her eyes look tired and sweet. As soft as Sta Tereza’s. Sometimes we fear what’s good.

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