All My Mothers

by Joanna Glen

Some days heaven touches earth. And do we notice it at the time? Or do we know it later – when heaven is snatched away?

There’s always a wasp. However good the picnic.

‘The energy in the universe isn’t held inside particles like scientists always thought,’ said Mr Blume. ‘It’s held between them.’ I nodded. ‘Love also has to be between,’ he said. ‘Do you see?’

Billy said he wondered how thirteen-year-old boys would get on if blood started spurting into their boxer shorts every month. Plus backache. And weeping. I said I thought it might change the whole social dynamic, wipe the smiles off the boys’ faces.

But love is supposed to be a watering hole, where you come and go by choice, and leave refreshed.

Grief exposed my heart, like when a building has its outside wall blown off, and I was vulnerable and unprotected.

and I felt bad, at the same time as thinking that I had no reason to feel bad, why were women made to feel bad for saying things that were reasonable?

‘We get real by being loved,’ said Carrie. ‘There’s a children’s book about that. With rabbits. I love it.’ ‘I love Lorenzo,’ said Sister Ana. ‘Then he’s a real man,’ said Carrie. ‘You made him real.’ ‘Is that how we make God real?’ I said. ‘No, that’s how God makes us real,’ said Sister Ana.

a swooning joy – the joy of being an expert. A joy not often talked about, the joy of expertise. I recommend it. Finding your thing. Your place in the scheme of things.