For Manchester. With my heart going out to all those who lost loved ones tonight. 

We drive through our city happy, not knowing, and I come home to find that at some point tonight, his sitter unaware downstairs, my eight-year-old son has made his way into my room, found a pair of my old pyjamas and put them on. He’s in my bed, snoring. Smelling of pink cheeks and playgrounds. There’s a dinosaur, a dog and a bear in my place.

I read the news and wonder how many will sleep tonight.

I make space.

I gather him in, hold him close to my face.

His breathing is loud.

It fills the room.

And my gratitude is medicine

from a small soft spoon.