And she tore the smile from my face when i thought i had been such a good boy.
But like every boy i was wrong... good boys don't hit pots with spoons the morning after the night before, good boys don't play football in the one room with all the crystal (I still maintain this made it a more interesting/skillful controlled game of football), good boys don't slide down the stairs in a cardboard box
21 years i have been good, been bold, been naughty and nice in her eyes... 21 years i have learned how to interpret every look, every gesture and comment, the complex arrangements of tones and sentiments that come with her seemingly opinion-less comments on my hair, clothes, manners, school work, language and more hair.... she is about as familiar to me as the sky, about as essential as oxygen and about as good at making her presence known as a Furby....
...she cleaned my face with spit on a tissue.... (even when there was water readily available).... she cured my fatal injuries and teary eyes with illustrated plasters and magic hands... and when the red stuff showed she held me down and attacked me with the "owey cream" which hurt more than the red stuff in the first place...
She has read me like a book from day one. Knows all my ins and outs, knows more than me about me....and even though there are some things i may think she doesn't know about....she probably does anyway.
And she brought a smile to my face when i thought i had been such a bold boy.
I never had a chance!