Hampstead Heath to my rescue

I don't know what I want any more, I don't know what I want to write about, or should write about or anything really. I feel I'm losing my way. I was feeling quite down about it yesterday.

Then my son's school rang. He'd fallen on his head, would I come to pick him up.

"Is it serious? Do I need to take him to hospital?"
"No, it might just be best to keep an eye on him."
"But if it's not serious, can't he stay where he is?"

When they said they'd call me back I suddenly felt guilty. They called me back.

"It's up to you," said the woman.
"Ok, I'll come and get him!"

It was a beautiful day, so blue, so crisp. I said I'd take him up the Heath, buy him a drink. We went and sat on a bench by the pond then he wanted to run up Kite Hill and show me where he and his classmates found a dead bird's head on Monday, on the edge of the forest.

The dead bird was no longer there, but as my son picked out stones on the path, I sat against a big oak tree, my back leaning into its trunk, my head resting on its bark, my eyes closed against the warm sun.

It was what I needed.

To breathe, softly, the beauty outside.

With my son.

It is what I need.