Monday, 19 January 2015



Lying with Heathcliff as we’ve finished stories and it’s nearly time for sleep.

“I’m going to miss you when I grow up,” he states without subjectivity.
“Well, I’m not dead yet.”
“Yah, but you’re 50.”
“Sure, but I have a young heart.”
“How young is it?”
“Well, depends: sometimes, 12, sometimes 16.”
Heathcliff pauses.
“Let me feel your heart.” So I put his wee hand on my chest and he feels its beat a minute.
“It’s 15,” he states emphatically.
“Ok, 15 it is.”

He rests easier and together we look out the window at the dying day, at the tree on the hill as it shivers in the slight breeze.

My heart breaks for not being able to watch him grow when I am gone.

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