Pace

I was standing at my office window a few hours ago and I saw a man walking hand in hand with his little boy, who couldn't have been older than about three. The man was very tall, but he had to walk at a slow pace, because his son had to be able to keep up with him. The awkwardness with which the man held himself upright, the angle of his shoulders, suggested that he wasn't used to walking so slowly.

And I realised that I'll never have that experience with Jessica, that sense of being slowed down, of having to meet her rhythm.

And I can't decide if that makes me feel relieved or desperate with grief.