Magical May by Annabel Howarth

It is May, and I am filled with the spirit of childhood freedom, as I watch my children run under cascading pink blossom.  I am transported to a safe place and you are alive once more. The street where you lived is once again fully lined with tall trees raining pink fairies.  The uneven pavement slabs and cracks on the curbs join us anew, to serve as ramps to ride our bikes up and down, or to challenge my balance as I glide in my adored blue and yellow roller boots.  You are there again, holding the handle on the back of my Blazer bike, and secretly letting go.  

It is May, and on a wet walk, while I impatiently coax my son to walk faster, I suddenly stop. As I watch his excited face, fascinated by the water pouring down the steep hill into the gutter, trying to stop it with his wellies, I can hear the distant xylophone notes of a faraway stream catching on the stones.  And I sense you, patiently holding our hands to steady us on those stepping stones over that babbling brook, as we hopped over and over again from one side to the other.  I feel the freedom splash as my happy boy jumps from puddle to puddle, and muffle the voice in my head saying ‘Don’t do that, you’ll get muddy’. 

It is May, and I drag my children away from computer games to fulfil my annual pilgrimage. I must see your face again, in the crowds of dancing bluebells.  I push through, holding my daughter’s hand, and you’re there, as you will always be.   I close my eyes and we’re back, walking towards Ballington Wood on the uneven pebbled path, which feels centuries old. Once in the wood, the old quarry hasn’t filled with leaves, and we just happen upon a rope swing or a den, again.  And you test out the rope swing, before we take it in turns to fly.  You are there in the wind, in the creak of the trees, in our laughter, and in my tears.