Sunday morning, a tiny scrap of paper on the floor. A very square scrap of paper.
I bend to pick it up and find that it’s not a piece of paper at all.
It’s a little white sticker, with three black circles – spheres – on it.
‘A bear,’ smiles Anthro-man.
A bear? I thought it was Mickey Mouse.
We both stare at it, soppy smiles on our faces.
She was lovely, wasn’t she?
Megan. Two in August, breaking hearts already.
Megan’s mum and dad had come to view our house. We’re selling it.
They have a good look round. They like the house. But the little charmer in the blue and white gingham skirt does something else, something quite amazing.
Her little feet patter across the timbered floor in the hall, scamper around the sitting room. She spies Piglit and Pooh’s pencil box the instant she walks in the study and as for the exercise ball in the junk room – it has her gurgling with delight.
Out in the garden the sun beams on us all and Megan romps onto the lawn, falls down, gets up, falls down with ne’er a wail or whimper.
The step’s good for jumping games – she takes my proffered fingers in her tiny hand as she jumps down, then crawls back up and jumps down, again and again and again.
A little girl – or boy – belongs here. In a leafy garden on a sunny day.
We’ve grown a lovely garden, created a house we like. It took us years. A not-quite-two-year-old girl made it a home, in seconds.