Sitting in my recliner watching my elder son assembling my latest latpak purchase, calmly and without complaint. Methodical, turning a piece this way!, and that.
The sun coming through the big windows, catches the hint of reddish gold in his well-shaped hair. Because it is a bit longer as is the latest trend I see not a trace of grey, and the colour is his own. I am reminded of a sketch I did of him while watching television. He would have been ten years old. He has the same absorbed calm expression as he looks at the diagram, scans around, and reaches for a piece.
Suddenly I am transported to another living room, in another town, in another life. He sits surrounded by brightly painted metal shapes of Meccano. He has carefully sorted it into groups of the same, and he knows exactly where to reach. He looks serious but he is perfectly happy.
Suddenly he thinks of something and turns to speak. I blink, disorientated. He we are, mother and son again in this quiet moment, the father of two my grandchildren, and I thank God for this precious gift that lights my life in midst of dreary aging and pain.
My life is ñothing without him. As any mother will tell you, he still my much-loved little boy.
When both my boys get together they ‘send me up something rotten!
Last year: ‘What are we doing with Mum for Xmas?”
Reply: “Let’s see if she makes it first.”
Both: “Ha ha ha ha ha!”