I’ve been in the best of moods these past few days. But that’s not saying it’s been the best week. Regardless, in between sneaking secret giggles into the collar of his shirt and pouting at being deprived of my sugary sweets, many things that may appear to equal the world in terms of urgency and importance suddenly seem so irrelevantly immaterial.
He had a lot of question to ask me, I knew, but his curiosity was equaled by the deep weariness in his bones that shone clearly through the lacklustre brown of his usually bright eyes, and exceeded by his fear. Fear of what? That I do not know. It pained me each time those lines etch themselves across his delicate forehead, each time that deep furrow digs itself a place in between his eyebrows. At moments like these, he seems so fragile, so small and little, that I am afraid to even hold him, for fear of crushing the flimsy front he’s fought so hard to upkeep. But that does not mean I care any less.
It’s too easy sometimes to take things for granted. That’s when the mistakes start spilling over in what would become an avalanche of painful regret and remorse. I’m trying really hard to revel in the lesser things in life and be grateful that I’m simply alive to be able to experience them. I’m making every attempt to open up and come to terms with what has happened and been done so as to be able to accept them with the grace of an adult and not the grief of a child. It’s hard – no one said it would be otherwise – but I’m trying. I’m not making much progress, I admit, but at least I am making an effort.
Maybe one day he’ll come to see just how much I do care, how much of myself I am laying on the table. Maybe one day he’ll stop worrying so much and be assured that I won’t be packing and headed out the front door first thing tomorrow morning, without so much as a note of goodbye.