Small love. Big love. Skinny love. Toni Morrison’s “love is or love ain’t, thin love ain’t love at all”. Early in the morning love. Love and honour your parents love. Love at the ends of its tether. “I can’t do this anymore” love.
Here a dad considers the love his son brought with him.
The boy. The beautiful boy made in love and birthed in angst. Long silences bred a thicket of tension as we fumbled our way to being comfortable, alone, together. Then we found music, we found words, we found FOOTBALL, with a glorious chorus: ‘Mo Salah, Mo Salah, running down the wing!’
But the quiet, generous ways of the boy still carry impenetrable mystery. In the most trying season of my mid life, as he now hovers above my 1.8m frame with at least five more years to grow beyond the giant that is his uncle, he couches my inadequacies in kindness. “It’s ok Dad, I understand”. The boy’s love knows no malice, no unpaid fees, no hint of disappointment.