blistering

Today my youngest child was off school and as we walked back home from dropping his big brother at the playground gate the rest of the day stretched lazily before us, a time for just the two of us to crawl about beneath the kitchen table with cars, or create a masterpiece of lego. He held my hand for a street or two, then skipped ahead confidently.

There, in the morning sunshine, as I turned the corner towards our house, I had a sharp memory (the physical jolt of sensory recollection that made my legs tremble) of bringing him home from nursery, feeding him cubes of crispy edged, moistly savoury eggy fried bread for lunch, pre-nap time, with the prospect of my back door man creeping up the stairs to entertain me while this little boy slept on.