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.