Sometimes, not too much, I calculate how old my children would have been and I imagine what it would be like. I do it to indulge myself every now and again, and funnily enough I can only do it when I'm feeling happy and it often puts a smile on my face, however strap-her-into-a-straitjacket-now this habit might sound. I've never marked their birth days or lit a candle or observed any sort of remembrance thing, but maybe this is my way of honouring their brief presence.
This morning we were rushing off to work, as we always do. Mornings are always a mad rush to get out the door and hit the road before the traffic gets too horrendous. H was climbing out the lift and I was unlocking the garage door in the darkness of the basement, with its cold smell of bare concrete. And just for a moment I could imagine this little grumpy 4 year old boy, trailing behind me
with bed hair and rumpled clothes, because he had to wear his favourite t-shirt even though it was dirty and at the bottom of the laundry basket and because it was just not worth arguing with him that morning. I could feel him there as clearly as I could feel H coming up behind me.
And then he was gone and we climbed into the car and I forgot all about it until now.