The day he turned one, I sat with him, under a summer sky, on the cliffs of Cape Cornwall. He played amongst the swathes of pink Thrift flowers, running his chubby little fingers through them, picking the occasional bloom and handing it to me, with a mischievous twinkle in his wide blue eyes. I stretched out my toes in the sunshine and marvelled at his perfect, white-golden curls. Below us, in the rock pools, his beloved brothers were seeking crabs, their excited voices carrying up to us on the warm salty air.
The day he turned one, I held him on my lap and sang ‘happy birthday’ to him, over and over, whilst he giggled in appreciation, holding on to my arm with his dimpled hand. We looked out to sea, and I held him close, feeling the soft weight of him and the breeze against my skin, and trying to imprint upon my heart a memory of the loveliness of it all.