Bridget's Story

Oh Thomais, blame not your poor mother for the cruelties of your life. My son if I could give it this beating pumping mass of cells arranged in chambered muscles pulsing existence through those racing limbs this organ they call a heart I would - oh life of my love forgive that pregnant child whose inadequacies dealt to you a heart too soon born to a world she had yet to learn herself. It is to you I divulge these words, for it is to you I have always - even when as that girl who could never have guessed a future not involving the triumphant realisation of all that she deserved - willed these expressions upon, for you are more I than that foolish girl ever was. No, fate was not to deal your mother a life in tow to an unafraid man. He that gave me you - and my son you must not hate him - was a man as much as I a woman: even the young sycamore can propel it's seed and regenerate, yet are those roots not loosened in times of storm and that trunk not snapped when tested? It is now clear to me just how ill-fated it was always going to be. But Thomais, you were born of passion of excesses in a jolted awakening. Thomais, my son, thou vision of mine eye - from no jaded loins were you begotten, and from no weakened heart shall you be surrendered. My life my love I commit to writing these small histories and in so doing absolve all obligation from you, my purest of reflections.