It's morning. I am awake, and Avery is beside me, asleep but thrashing around. Martin and Fred are up. It's cold. I snuggle down in bed and drift. Avery sits up, then lies down again. He seems to drift off. Fred comes to the door and whispers into my dark room: 'Coffee's ready.'
'Okay,' I say.
Avery sits up and makes a morning noise, a sort of conversational babble. I turn on the light.
'Wow,' says Avery. And then, 'Amazing.'
I am impressed, amused. He has never said amazing before. This is amazing to me. We say the word back and forth to each other, pleased with ourselves. He flops his head down on the pillow, looks up at me and says, clear as you like, 'Do you love me, Mummy?'
This was sitting in my drafts, an unfinished fragment. Something would have happened, some distraction, or some stirring worry that this was overly self-indulgent, too personal, insubstantial to anyone that isn't me. However, I am pressing publish because I would like this to be archived, this memory, which I had already half forgotten.