I’d had another
pointless and
futile
argument
with my
mother in the
living room.

It was about not taking my
medication. I hated
myself for being
pedantic and
petty.

She’s a woman of
experience, and at
her maturity
she’s had
time to know
my faults. Her patience
was tested for the
billionth
time.

My mum
was only
being considerate
and loving.

The truth is
when a child has schizophrenia,
it is usually the mother
who takes the
mountain of
responsibility, and has to
take care of their
loved ones.

My head was filled
with paranoia, and
I thought she
was evil, but oh how
wrong could her
son be?

As I dialled the
number I didn’t really
understand the
point of them:
flowers.

But when the
florist
arrived, I was taken
aback by the smile
all over
her boundless face.
In one moment
I had said more
than

sorry,
or thank you,
expressed more
than gratitude,
and that of
forgiveness.

And as she
placed them
in a vase. I pondered,
on what they
had
embodied, a bunch of
fine aroma’s, with
hollow green stems
and colourful
trumpets,
maybe,

except to her
they
were the
answer to
every
argument we’d
ever had,
and, all those
words I didn’t
mean. To her they
were more
than a bunch of flowers,
for not one
word, that comes from a
son’s reckless mouth,
could fill the gaps
between his
heart, and the empty
hollow stems
of man.

David Holloway

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