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drawing from garden of earthly feb

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The muddy middle

We were in the garden with the boy who was ill – he was lying back on a supporting plastic frame, like the kind of toy car a child could sit in and pretend to be driving, but bigger. Michael had gone off to kill his mentors (he was last seen wielding a sword), because they’d stopped being friends with him: which was perhaps something – the being friends – that mentors shouldn’t do, and now perhaps they were re-establishing a necessary distance, all the more necessary as they were being hunted.

 
My friends were being a bit rough with the boy who was ill so I went over to stop them – “I’d have thought you’d have known better, been a bit more sensitive.” They’d started to take some of the mud out of the boy’s middle – it needed to be in there, some sort of fertilizer, in the box containing the water that it was submerged beneath, which kept it moist. So I started to scoop what they’d left on the grass back into the water, and hoped for the best.