Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Love burns. Love turns your dreams on end, the world sent screaming. Mother weans the babe but which cries louder? "Out!" He's gone. And love still burns. Her husband’s heart had turned from wreck of home to deck of cards, to gambling green. She took his leaving hard. "He's burned through all our savings now," she cursed, but would he still reverse the pain, come home again? Dark wrack and ruin nurtured seeds of love and love's return. She could not spurn his sorrow, only held the child. “Is this tomorrow?” Smiled. Love heals as well. And true love tells.

It didn’t take long for Alice to spoil her party-dress. She spilled gravy on Christmas Day, splashed yellow paints, got dripped on from Daddy’s wine-glass when she ran into him, then slipped in the mud. Poor Alice cried on New Year’s Eve; Mommy had washed her pretty dress, but it came out blotchy and wrong. Now she had nothing to wear. Alice slept sadly that night while her mother sewed. In the morning the dress was beautiful again, brown roots and branches embroidered on the gravy-stain, buttercups and daisies growing round a bright red rose. “Thank you Mommy,” Alice said.