It’s true that I’m tired…
It’s true that I’m tired, probably more tired than I’ve ever been these last couple of years. It’s a tiredness born out of sleepless nights, and long journeys and missing those who aren’t here any more. It feels like I’m getting older, and the face that looks back at me from the mirror is older than I remember. The painting in the attic is probably getting younger at the moment.
But it’s ok. Because when he looks at me with recognition and understanding about the magic train, or the lions on the carpet, or the man in the moon, it’s worth it. When he reaches over to touch my hair or hug his mother, it’s worth it. And when the bass kicks in and he goes mental, round and round in circles on the floor, laughing and feeling the music there’s not a doubt that he’s the product of his parents. He’s got it, that rush when the music goes like this or like that, you can see the hairs on the back of his neck go up when the voice goes whoosh and the drums go BANG.
He’s my boy, and every minute I’m not asleep is one I can think about him. And that’s good.