Today I visited an antique centre with Andrew (I know! I know! I don’t look 70 do I 😩) and as we wandered around the Aladdin’s cave of treasures I heard a familiar noise. A song. A rambling, senseless tune with words that meant nothing to me but everything to the boy singing.
A glimpse of our future
He was about 15 I think, as tall as his mum and holding her arm as she looked at the antiques and crafts. I wondered how she felt. Was she proud? Weary? My guess is both. He looked everywhere and nowhere and kept his hand up, but limp, flapping occasionally at the side of his face. He wore a cow skin patterned cowboy hat and had the biggest smile on his face and I smiled too. Not out of pity. Not because I felt awkward but because I thought about the day my Harry will be that big. The days when I’ll take my eternal boy out with me and have him hold my arm instead of me holding his hand (or wrist ~ sometimes he’s a flight risk!) and I hoped that my boy will be as relaxed and as happy as that boy was, wearing a hat or carrying a ‘mote’. Singing his own song.