Skipping Time

It is, finally, and very belatedly, spring.

So belatedly, in fact, that we seem to have jumped over spring and landed straight into early summer.

Royal blue skies, blossom-heavy trees, plants bursting and tumbling into new growth, as if desperate to make up for opportunitiy missed.

Setting out in the morning for school with the slightest of chills on our cheeks, but walking home in the afternoons bare-armed and clamouring for paddling pools and ice creams.

Children in the garden, running in the streets, laughing and throwing faces up to catch the sun, no longer muffled and huddled against cold and wind.

Watching my big boy yesterday, daft on sunshine and warmth, gambolling around the drive like an overgrown, uniform-clad lamb.

Skipping, for sheer delight.

A clench of the heart at his carefree joy. The ghost of a thought, then guilt for that ghost, that this time next year he may be too old for skipping. The fear that he will skip at school, and be mocked by those lofty in the conviction that their skipping time is done.

Skipping time.

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