3/4 time

'Hey love,' he chirps. 'You're missing one - didn't you notice?'

I wheel the oft-coveted double buggy around the queue in the bank.

'Oh no, I haven't lost anyone,' I respond. 'There is usually another but he's at nursery this morning.'

***

'Ooooo,' the lady-in-the-lift coos. 'I was checking for twins!'

'No, no,' I say. 'No twins here. I know he is too old for a buggy really but he does tend to run off. Better safe than sorry.''

***

And there is pressure, a pressing. Against my skin. On atrophied tissue. Something wasted. Something that was once vital and passionate.

Bump, bump, bump. Against the shadow of a five year old bruise. Kind, well meaning chatter. Strangers bumping up against a sore spot. It aches momentarily. But is shrugged off. Because I haven't the time. And they mean well. Who would, or could, ever know?

***

Her earnest blue eyes search for mine. She talks and talks. She writes and explains. She shows me her sketch book, and her maths book, and her letter. I see myself as a child. I smile wryly. I sigh.

Because her mother isn't here. She's a childminder and has to work. I'm a poor substitute.

But I think that perhaps I am not completely rubbish with children?
Perhaps I am not an awful mother?
Perhaps I am not a terrible, horrible, ungrateful person?
Or maybe I am.

Who can call it?

Because I can connect with a child. Just not my own.
Not this one of the three, of the four, anyway.
But I will wait. I'm very patient.

I'm still waiting for her sister after all. And five years waiting for the dead is as nothing.

I can wait longer for the living.
I will out last you and I'll be here, waiting.
When you are ready.
To find me and for me to find you.
We will meet. Eventually.