We walk around the shop
We look at sparkly things
Things that smell nice
Soft things
Pretty things
Just like I did with my own mother
As a child, looking for things
More pretty things
To fill the space of our life
Things promising warm fuzzy moments
Bright colours
Fragile glass
Perfection
We walk hand in hand
Into a British institution
For Victorial Sponge Cake and Flapjack
Coffee and sparkling something
Silence
What do we talk about?
She’s only seven and I’m already hoping to God
We’ll be doing this when she’s 17
Talking about what she wants to be
Or who she fancies
Hoping when she’s 27
Bouncing her baby on my lap
Letting her drink her coffee while it’s still hot
or maybe not
Wondering if she’ll love coffee like me
When she’s 37
Still out and about together, me with a flapjack, her with her cake
Putting the world to rights
Or convinced the other is wrong
When she’s 47
I’ll be past 70
I hope if nothing else
we’ll be laughing
What I do know for sure
Is that in every moment, every season
I will feel love
I will see beauty
I will know joy
In the messy perfect reality
Not because of what she does or achieves
But for who she is….
The gift
Of a seven year old’s soft hand in mine while we ¬†browsed the shops,
Her savouring her three layered piece of Victoria Sponge with a mixture of delight and seriousness.
Remarking on the “tastiness” of her sparkling drink, looking up and smiling at me in simple excitement just because were were there, having a treat, just us.
She will always be my treasure
my warm fuzzy moment
One whom I stand back and take delight in her just…being.

 

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