I was sitting on the veranda of Mum and Dad’s place, watching the dust trailing behind cars crawling down the long driveway. Saturday night was a quiet BBQ night in the bush. Just 30 or so people.
The mountain behind the property was shielding some of the bright orange and pink highlights electrifying the white clouds above them. The air made me sleepy.
Chicky came walking around the southern side of the veranda barefoot and a little grubby from a whole day outside, playing amongst acres of green, and chasing lizards.
He crawled up and nestled around my lap a few times to get comfortable, like a kitten does when it want to settle for a sleep. He found a comfortable spot, his stomach against mine, his legs wrapped around my waist, his head resting precariously on my chest, held up by my shoulder.
I rocked side to side, stroking his back and hair rhythmically. He was tired and he wanted to sleep. I was delighted to receive his cuddle, such an honoured treat. Not since he was a baby had he done this. Now years later I remember how I didn’t get to hold him to sleep much in those days.
You live but one day at a time and each new day is a new chance. So I took this opportunity to hold my youngest son as he slept, no matter how awkward the pose and the discomfort.
His head slipped occasionally and my family admired the sight. My mother caressed his forehead as she held my arm scaffolded around him, smiling so softly, proudly and lovingly.
Each second I stood holding him in his slumber, I felt my heart. Perhaps he could hear it too and it sent him to sleep.
I looked down at his furry brown hair, his black lashes curling up from his hal- moon eyelids. His perfect little nose sat over soft pink dear little lips.
He is the image of contentment, peace and love, and he is mine. Such a privilege, such an honour, to hold my littlest man.
