the threads in her head

Suddenly you feel so much like a little child again.

The world is spun new with colours. Deep swirly colours. Perspiration gets into the eye, and it stings, the world blurs, and it is oh so very beautiful. And I think back about how things make me feel special. Warm, comforted, cosy. Like being the only priviledged person to hear that one special concert, to see those precious words meant for you. No one else can steal that away from you.

And I remember how he freed time up for me among his chaos, his busy life of deadlines and work, and listened to me. Somehow I am nuzzling that thought, nursing it close to my heart, and it's of such comfort. Like the baby blanket you grew up with, thick and familiar with your very own scent.

Be it one day, one month, one year. And I remember. How a greeting can make me happy. How an enquiry about my well-being would be an instant balm, a soothing spell that makes everything all right for that one moment.

And I think, and I remember. And I feel like a little child.

It's bedtime now.