The Spectator

It was time to get out of the water. And she called him. He came, bright-eyed, dripping and she picked up the towel and surrounded him in its luxurious cotton. The softness was apparent and he snuggled himself deep into it’s folds and the arms that embraced him.

The towel was so large that he was swamped by it. The mother chuckled and laughed, and the boy only had eyes for his mother. He looked so small and beautiful, swaddled in blue and white stripes.

It reminded her of the beach holidays when she was a child and then later, in the not so distant past.

No don’t look she told herself

but

Her eyes continually strayed back to the pair of them and eventually she abandoned the fight. and openly watched them, riveted.

The boys eyes were large and spectacularly blue, his hair was so dark that it was almost black, it was thick and overly long for a child of 6 or7.

She could feel the deap, painful yearning that she too should be greeting her child from this picturesque lakeside, that she too should be drying her sons face, his little creases between his toes ears and bottom.

She watched as the mother looked up with laughing eyes and met hers.

Her look darkened and she clutched her child to her and turned her back to her spectator.