I'd shown him how to do it about a week ago, but hadn't written a recipe down.
Down the stairs I came at 9am, after another really rough night of coughing and just-not-sleeping,
and there he was.
Standing by the stove, stirring.
He turned and said, "Mum, just go back to bed! I'll bring this up to you."
Turned out he'd looked up a recipe online, found all the ingredients, tweaked the recipe, sliced up bananas and stood, stirring, for the ages it takes to make porridge right.
You can imagine.
The light coming in quietly from the kitchen window,
the table set,
a boy making something for his mother.
I danced with my girl this evening.
I don't remember what we were listening to; it might have even been something she made up.
But I wrapped my arms around her and she wrapped her arms around me
and she sang her funny lyrics, grinning and grinning
as we swayed together.
So silly and jolly, and she had such an impish smile and at some point I laughed 'til I had to stop for coughing.
And she looked at me with so much love in her eyes
my heart swelled and swelled.
And I thought tonight
about things so small,
things you remember even though they are gone an instant later,
how something so small can become something so strong.