This time last year, almost to the day, Tim and I went for a picnic in Prospect Park. It was unusually good weather for early spring. I was working from home on Wednesdays, sick to my bones, and Timothy took a break from his finals revision and pulled me out of doors for an hour. We chose the slope uphill from the playground because the grass was nicer, and ate sandwiches and smeared Rolo ice creams all over our faces. After lunch we watched the families by the swings, thinking about the point not far distant but still unimaginable, when we’d be one of them.
Today, Henry and I went back to the park. It’s been unusually good weather for early spring. We chose the slope uphill from the playground because the grass was nicer, played with Sir Prance and the blanket, and took a nap. He’s much better company now he’s outside making me laugh and not inside kicking my ribs all to heck.
It’s odd for me to think back and realise that Henry was who I was growing. It was him, all the time. I’d find it hard to believe if that ski-jump nose hadn’t been present and correct right from the outset. Some noses are determined to make their presence felt. This one was.