“Hi!” says a boy, running up to me in an indoor play centre on the weekend.
“Hi!” says I.
“My mum has a baby in her belly.”
“That’s fantastic news. You’re going to be a big brother.”
“My mum’s already had three babies die in her belly,” says the boy, unfazed.
“Oh.” God, what can I say? “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. The babies are in heaven now.”
The boys trips off, and I am left staggered as to the ability of children to cope with all sorts of circumstances.
Naturally, after such a confession, I sought out his mother sitting in the crowd. There she was, swollen belly signalling at least six months gone, and I felt such…well, almost love for her. Concern. Throat-constricting sympathy. Funny how people you pass in a room, in a crowd, can be the source of such private tragedy.
I hope all goes well for her. I really, really do.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.
W. B Yeats
