Friday night, and the youngun is comprising his role as tough man, squaring up to us as if we’re his opponents on the street.
He’s learned to swell up his chest, looking down on us as he shoots past, dishing out threats. He’s giving us an ultimatum.
We just laugh back, and carry on preparing dinner. Perhaps he’ll come back down to earth once his hungry stomach has been filled.
We can but hope. Come home, oh, sweet boy we raised, once so kind, helpful and caring. Come back, dear boy. We miss you.
Last modified: 15 November 2024
