Nothing Left To Say

I bumped into a former neighbour yesterday. She asked me, rather surprisingly I thought, if I was still writing a blog. “No,” I answered, “I’ve nothing left to say!” “Ridiculous!” She retorted. 

So here I am, metaphorically chewing the end of a pencil, deep in thought, conjuring up something to say. 

Alfie is musing on life and toothbrushes. There are two of them, and they are identical, you see , and there must be an explanation. “They’ve cloned,.” asserts the four year-old with conviction. “It means they’ve doubled, “ he explains, carefully, assuming I don’t know. 

Sunday was Jacob’s fourth birthday. He’s the youngest of my grandchildren, and he too, takes my education very seriously. 

The entire family are gathered along with an apparently infinite number of  very young children, making an awful lot of noise in a soft play area. It’s raucous and joyous. To be present in the midst of such exuberance is an awesome experience. I savoured it. 

Tuesday, I showed Sam, aged eight, how to use SkyView to identify the planets visible at sunset. I recalled his sister Rosie now fifteen, then aged five, looked at me with something like pity when I pointed out to her a, “three-quarters” moon. “It’s a waxing gibbous, grandma!” Comes of having a cosmologist as a mother. 

I realise now, that  I always have something to write about. Joy. I feel it now, the quiet flow of an inexplicable happiness that children who are cherished live from, and that I have never lost.