Stella-May Collette Neale

You’re seven now, or at least you will be in a few hours. All those nights when you’ve shouted down the hallway in the middle of the night so that you can call me to your bed and ask me, ‘how many days, now?’

Well it’s here now. And a decent chunk of the plastic crap you love so much from The Warehouse is waiting for you. Just like I’ll be waiting for you when you snap off an arm of someone with a name which I can’t remember, or lose the really important sticker that goes on the face of some animal person hybrid. I’ll even try and be sympathetic, even though your blend of gentle rage and despairing joy makes it hard. It’s worth it, though. When I catch you staring at clouds, or have to remind you to focus on the most basic of motor skill tasks lest you stray off task, I remember.

I hope I never forget.



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