And no, it wasn’t the first time we had held hands.
For I had grabbed and clutched his hand on many occasions prior to that day; when crossing the road, or when trying to pry him from the rows of toys at the department store, or to just to help him balance during those first wobbly stages of walking.

But this was the first time he had reached out for mine.

Not because he felt unsafe, or because he had been ordered to do so; but because he had wanted to. For no reason at all.

And that reason, that no reason, is why the incident is so deepy nestled in my treasure chest of memories.
Because the feeling of that unexpected little warm hand in mine represents one of those lump-in-the-throat beautiful moments.

Today that little boy who once reached up to place his hand in mine is turning 13.

Goddamn but it’s true what they say about time …

It flies by; whooshing past on a stream of chubby crayons then textas and the proud brandishing of a newly received pen licence. It is carried away by Mummmeee, then Mum. And its history is recorded by the tilting of my own neck which looked down for a while, then straight ahead for a moment, but for some time now, and indeed the rest of my life, will forever be looking up.

That little boy who reached his hand out to me is a teenager today.

Oh save me.

A teenager.

I’ve heard it could be a dim road ahead. Grubby and a little dank. And, I won’t deny there haven’t already been glimpses of what might be gloomy times ahead. But there have also been signs, bold, warming signs of the man he will be.
A man whom I will be proud of; a man who won’t need to hold my hand anymore.

But for now he’s a near-man.

One who is doing his best to pretend that he doesn’t need my hand anymore.

Though,
I still notice that he looks at it on occasion.

So I shall keep it ready and waiting.
Not exactly tucked away, deep in a pocket,
nor waving it in front of him, fingers wiggling like a mad-woman who cannot let go,
but just there.
Hanging loosely by my side.
Casually exposed.
Ready and waiting,
just in case he ever wants to,
for no reason at all,
reach out for it again.

I think I’ll keep them.

By the time you’re eighty years old you’ve learned everything. You only have to remember it. – George Burns.

My girl walks proudly on to the stage clutching her trumpet. She beams when she sees me in the audience and does one of those little low wagging of her fingers, a wave just for me. She takes her position up the back, which is disappointing because it’s difficult to see her; she’s a shorty … just like her mum. But I’ll know I’ll hear her—loud and clear. And I know what she is going to play, because I’ve heard her toot it over and over the past few weeks in preparation for the recital.

“Nonno says practice makes perfect,” my girl tells her dad and I one evening after we’d commented about a particularly long and particularly loud session of tooting. As she walks from the room her ponytail swishes, flicking up at us.

We joke about it later, when she is in bed, “Of course he wouldn’t mind all that tooting …” I say. I don’t need to continue, my husband is already laughing, knowing full well how deaf his father has become in recent years.

The conductor raises his arm and the grade four band lift their instruments into position.
Deep breath.
The concert begins.

A quarter of the way through I notice an odd noise. The old man next to me has fallen asleep. His head leans forward slightly casting a slowly rocking shadow on his neatly-pressed brown shirt. He is snoring. Breathy, old man snores. I glance over at his wife who is watching the children play, she looks at me and shrugs her shoulders a little.

There was a time in my past when I would have been impatient with someone doing such a thing. Falling asleep during my daughter’s concert. I would have found it offensive. I would have been embarrassed. I would have probably made some kind of coughing noise or clapped a little loudly in an effort to jolt them awake.
But now I feel different.
I feel a little chuckle welling up inside me. But I suppress it because I don’t want to disturb him.

At the end of the concert my girl runs up to me. “Did you see me Mum?” she says brandishing her shiny instrument. “Yes, I’m so proud,” I say. “You were brilliant!”
“Nonna, did you like my duet?” she asks.
“Yes bella,” Her Grandmother replies. “You played so well and I can tell it was Nonno’s favourite part too.” She leans in close to her granddaughter and whispers, “I know because he stayed awake for that part.” They laugh and Nonno smiles. But I don’t think he heard … because he isn’t wearing his hearing aid today.



Tonight when the sun goes down I will be raising a glass of Italian dolce Spumante to my Father-in-law. Proposing a toast to the gathered family and friends on the occasion of his 80th birthday.

I usually spend ages crafting what I will say at events such as these. But this time it was easy. One sentence is all I need.

To Dante,
I’ve never met a man who cares as much, or has worked as hard for his family, as you.
Buon compleanno.
Happy 80th birthday.





This post was inspired by the writing prompt: “What’cha goin’ to do when the sun goes down tonight?!” from Scott Peters. Thank you.
Memories are life.

“Look at life through the windshield … not the rear-view mirror.” – B. Baggett.

I have never run through a field of wildflowers screaming.
I have never enjoyed a cup of instant coffee.
I have never liked the look of liquid paper on a page.
I have never gotten blind drunk.
I have never liked the taste of raw tomato.
I have never thought I was good enough to be a writer.
I have never won a running race.
I have never liked the saying: “The grass is always greener on the other side”.
I have never liked the way I look.

I have been handed a bunch of wildflowers, that were mostly weeds, by a chubby handed little boy—and my heart screamed with happiness.

I have hand-ground freshly roasted coffee beans, brewed espresso shots and sipped that concoction with my eyes closed.

I have saved writing drafts, calling them version .1, then .2, then .3 and so on, then enjoyed looking back to see where I have come from.

I have experienced being drunk on life.

I have served raw tomato to my children from an early age. Because I do not presume just because they grew in my womb that they have the same tastes that I do.

I have realised that sometimes you just need to ignore your critics.

I have never won a running race but that doesn’t mean I feed my kids lame lines about participation being THE most important thing. No. Winning is important. Striving to do your best IS important. I don’t care if they win the running races of life, but I hope they win at the things that are important. Career. Love. Life.

I have always loved the saying “…that if you think the grass is greener on the other side, maybe you should be spending your time watering your own effing grass.”

I have really got to get over that. One day.





This post is dedicated to Bookboy. Thank you for a writing prompt that challenged my mind: I ran through a field of wildflowers screaming.