Them
Of course they are both at war, how silly to think they would not be. Raised by a mother at eternal war, it would be foolish to imagine that they would not know battle too, their wars are of mine, no amount of therapy will tell me otherwise. Yet their creative beauty is also front and centre, from the broken pottery reminding me of little him and his countless art projects pinned to every wall by way of reminder of his genius to the instagram post of bigger him intuitively jamming in that Peckham car park... yeah there have been bigger stages with huge crowds but for me the familial grime and the music from the deepest part of his melancholic soul is a direct hit on my heart. That beautiful older him whose charisima and shyness sit in silent commune as an evolution of both of his fractured parents. To watch their masculinity of which I know less and less move further away from me, is the hardest part. They won't ever know the feeling that their tone of voice has on me, or the way I will grab the air they breath just to be closer to them and the pain with which I walk silently apologising for everything I was not. They were born of this fighter, I knew that when we lost the littler him, despite the anguish and pain, in those moments, I knew he was resourced enough. The wars they have known are the evolution of mine, but theirs have more rainbows in the mix.