My son's gone away. My heart is heavy, weighing down my bones. Until he's home it won't be still. I told my son, if he hears a distant drumming, that's me thinking of him.
He's never gone away for two weeks before. It's never been that long. Sunday I'll wake up and for a moment will think he'll be back in the afternoon. I'll smile and know he's in my life. Smile away that aching feeling. It takes practice but I've had time to get used to it; a day at first, then two, three, four, seven. Fifteen days is a challenge but I know he'll have a fantastic time.
He's made me a card. On the back of the envelope he's written: "please open this when I am in Ireland." I'll open it on Sunday morning.
For now, there's only one thing for the way I'm feeling. Hampstead Heath. I'll go back to the spot I took him to this morning, I'll look out on the pond and the ducks and dragonflies who swim and swirl. Maybe I'll cry; empty all that I won't acknowledge, all that I can't express, all that I can't articulate, into the water. The ducks will drink it and sing - quack quack, quack quack.
My son lives in my heart - boom boom, boom boom.
I'm meeting friends tonight - boom boom, boom boom.
Boom boom, boom boom, boom boom, boom boom, boom boom....
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