| The paper bouquet for Mother's Day. |
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Sometimes my daughter and I are thinking. Whereas I tend to do this standing around, staring in the distance, she walks round and round me in circles, anti-clockwise, but continuously touching me with her left hand - what is technically known as brushing. It doesn't matter what the topic is, a question is about to be presented for me to answer. Sometimes we argue, for what's best doesn't always win my daughter over. This usually prompts her to stalk off in impressive fashion, stomping out with her head ever so slightly bowed, at a minuscule angle, as well as her upper torso for that matter, usually to reappear after a while. Sometimes I find myself rooting around in the fragments I remember from my early childhood, but there's not much there that even begins to resemble hers. I sometimes wonder whether I don't seize the opportunity quietly to compensate for this. So that even her harshest sniggering, which she saves for those special occasions when she considers a spot of ruthless gloating to be in order, is balm to my ears. |