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My Porridge?

Mum points to the porridge. It’s mine? To add banana ? 



Yes.


But it’s not mine, it’s your porridge.


It’s yours.


Now what shall I do? Sugar. How much sugar? 


1 small teaspoon.


She takes her tablespoon and scoops a piled spoon of sugar.


No, a small spoonful. I show her.


She adds a smaller amount and stirs, but then is unsure of what next.


She plays with the banana skin. She holds the bowl and looks at me. To cook?


No, I’ve cooked it already.


And now? Now I can eat it?


She sits on the couch with the bowl of porridge. She looks at me and raises her bowl.


It is my porridge? 


Yes I nod.


To finish it?


Yes, I nod.


I tell her I’ve put a towel down on the couch, because all the coverings had ‘pishy’ on them. 



This made her upset.


She said I want to die.


You need to change your pads more often, that’s all. I put the towel there.


She looks at me.



I’m sitting down, not rushing; giving her my attention or more correctly, my presence, cos my attention is on the computer.


I smile. She smiles back. She looks pale and thinner.


Thank you, thank you for keeping me alive, she says again.


I’d like to die.



Why?


Cos mental, I’m not good.


You’re not too bad.


I’m not good, don’t tell me. Don’t try


You’re not as bad as you think. You prepared me a big beautiful meal yesterday. Remember?


With you, she adds, we worked very hard!

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