Footy Season


 The footy season has finished, all the grand finals have been played. Cheer cheer the red and the white, Oh when the saints go marching in and We are the navy blues have all receded into the background and are mumbled half-heartedly; not out loud at the top of their voices. The football cards are scattered throughout their bedroom; waiting for next year’s up dates with different players in different clubs.

The final of the rugby world cup has been played but the boys were only interested in the haka. They are up early with their father to watch the Champions League or the Europa Cup but only not all games are shown on the television as they eat their breakfast eyes glued on their favourite, Lionel Messi.

I hate footy season. Everyone says it gives me time to myself but all it does is remind me of what I am missing. ‘What would I do with my daughter while the boys watch the football?’ I ask myself. Would she play netball while the boys played football? Would she cheer for the Swans along with her brothers? Or would she want to do something entirely different and hang out with her mother? I will never know the answers to these questions. I ask them as I watch my sons play football; I ask them as they watch a game on television; I ask them throughout footy season.

And now the footy season is over. I almost miss the singing and cheering but I do not miss the twisting knife which stabs into my heart each time I wonder what we would be doing at that time. ‘What would the girls do, Clea?’ I’m sure you would have plans. You always had plans for the girls. Just us girls. We’re the girls, aren’t we Clea?

 Girlz rock says the hand drawn sign on Clea’s bedroom door.

About huntersoledad

Mother of three. Bereaved mother of one. Survivor and victim of 2009 Samoan tsunami. Could be if would be writer.
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