Hanging on, only to let go

You were eight years old, ahead of you was a sheer rock face. Its jagged, splintered stones protruding creating an ideal base for hand and footholds. Looking back at you from the shoreline, I watched through squinted eyes against the glare of the sun. My heart racing, I stood still, feeling the heat of the sun burning against my skin. I held my breath, anticipating your next move, evaluating the risk whilst willing your independence on.

Skillfully you climbed the first tier, an intake of breath as loosened shards skitted down. You were searching for the next move, which routes to take? Tentatively I began walking slowly in your direction. Every fibre in my body was on high alert, my mind poised with renewed sharpness, ready to leap into action, to react. What if you fall? How high?

As you began moving more stones skitted down. I paused, my mouth felt dry. How could I stand here as your mother, and watch this scene unfold like a movie? My own child, my precious child.

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