Songs For Your Mother Gordon MacMillan (good books for 7th graders .txt) 📖

The problem is that I know I want to find her for myself as much as I want to find her for Luke. That’s what I’m feeling, a deep longing to see Lauren again, calling out to me. Is that selfish? Maybe it is, but I cannot help myself. I should want things for Luke and not for myself. Tonight is an example of that. A moment when I put myself first. I’m sure selflessness must be something that you learn or grow into. I’m not sure that I’m quite there yet.

‘I’ll vote for less heartbreak,’ I say.

I can still see her shadowy figure standing by the window frame and I run my fingers up and down the fretboard and over the strings, making them sing. I’m thinking about the whiskey, and I’m thinking about the street light that glimmers through the wooden blinds. I nod to myself. I know exactly what I would play for her if I could, and what she might want to hear on a night like this. Of all the songs I have written down over the years, it is the one that I keep coming back to. It is slow and all minor chords.

I start to softly play, and introduce it as I strum the opening chords. This one is called ‘Modern Door’, I say.

She stands by the modern door of the modern building,

And she takes my breath away.

And although it is October and starting to snow,

She reflects summer all year through.

As I play, I close my eyes as if I’m singing to myself. When I’m finished, I open them again, and of course I am. There’s no Lauren standing there by the window. She was barely there to begin with.

Chapter 18

It’s Saturday and we’re heading out into the early December sunshine. Luke is pulling at the small blue-and-yellow BMX bike that I bought for him in the week as he bounces the wheels down the front step.

We are taking it outside for the first time and heading to the park. It’s a big moment for the two of us. It’s Luke’s first bike, and I’m taking him to the park to learn to ride. I can’t remember when I first learned precisely, although I do remember getting a brand-new bike one Christmas. I rode it down the front path with my mother behind me holding on and pushing as I pedalled on into the garden. My sister and others watched from the doorway, wrapping their arms around themselves against the cold. I must have been six or thereabouts. I couldn’t have been much older than that.

My mother kept asking me if I was ready. I remember shouting ready and then she launched me and off I went. I was riding solo on a big bike for the first time. Apparently, as things turned out, I wasn’t ready. It went well for about ten metres until I started to curve wildly and promptly crashed to the ground. The bike slid from under me and I landed in an icy puddle. It didn’t matter. I was mud splattered and deliriously happy as if I had expected it to happen all along.

Now I’m about to do the same thing with Luke. To be honest, I’m hoping for better results. According to TSP, there’s no need to wait. Georgia already has a bike, and Luke wants to follow suit, and the pressure has been building all week. Where Georgia goes, Luke has to follow.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask as I open the garden gate.

Luke looks at me very seriously, and nods.

‘Ready, Daddy.’

‘Come on then,’ I say.

I walk besides Luke as he carefully wheels his bike down the path and onto the street. Luke says that more and more: Daddy. It still surprises me, and I swear I swell with pride every time. I hope that never stops.

We walk up the street towards the main road and the park where we’re meeting TSP and Georgia.

‘Remind me what today is, Luke?’

Luke laughs when I ask this, as if I’m being silly.

‘It’s new-bike day,’ Luke says.

That’s what we decided today is, #newbikeday. I told him all he needed to do was avoid the mud as I failed to do on my six-year-old maiden voyage. That’s pretty much a lifetime of advice right there – avoid the mud.

At the main road, we cross the four lanes of traffic to Finsbury Park and our awaiting bike adventure. Luke has a look of absolute joy on his face. He can’t stop smiling and it is infectious.

We cut across the grass to the park café where TSP and Georgia are standing by the fence watching the ducks in the boating lake. The boats, blue and yellow, red and black, and some with pirate skull and cross bones on their stern, sit upturned on the bank waiting for spring. Luke starts to wheel his bike faster as we approach and say our hellos.

‘I can already ride, can’t I, Mummy?’ Georgia says.

‘Yes, you can, darling,’ TSP says.

‘I’m here to help,’ Georgia says.

‘Where’s Dan?’ I ask, wondering where TSP’s two-year-old son is, as she had mentioned bringing both of them along today.

‘Oh, he wasn’t looking that well. Andrew begrudgingly popped around and he’s looking after him. He has to go to work in a while so we can’t stay that long I’m afraid.’

TSP rolls her eyes as she mentions Andrew. There’s no love there at all for her. It’s the case that she has to endure him, the father of her children, and his presence in her life for the sake of Georgia and Dan. We all walk past the lake and through the McKenzie Flower Garden to one of the open green spaces adjacent to the running track. Walking across the grass, I look back at TSP as if to say ‘here we go’. I put on his helmet, and tighten the strap, and Luke contorts his face as I buckle him up. That is as far as his protest goes, having earlier agreed our