Two little black heads nestled on the bed. Bodies curled into mine seeking comfort and security. One old and deaf now and reaching the end. She sleeps so long and so deeply these days that we frequently find ourselves giving her a prod when we pass her by, just to make sure that she's still breathing. Ever fearful of the time when she's not.
The other little head is still a baby. Still finds life interesting, exciting and terrifying in equal measure. He starts and bounds and races. Not for him the staid dignity of the measured walk. He's all dash and vigour, flicking ears and twitching tail. And Mummy's comforting smell and touch. He comes to me and snuggles and snuffles and pads in my hair and curls up on my shoulder to sleep deep and long. Then suddenly awakens and shoots off in pursuit of who-knows-what. He sleeps with abandon. Body out-stretched. Belly exposed. His four legs minute and hour hands telling the time at 6 o'clock. He must feel so safe, so secure here, to sleep so soundly in such an exposed attitude. What dreams does he dream as his little heart beats? The rare, deformed valve known only to those who love him or wish to study him. Unknown by him as he goes about his little life well fed, well loved, well cared for. Unaware that in all his perfection, this one tiny piece, this collection of little cells that, by some unhappy happenstance, failed to find perfection, whilst in the safest place of all, his mother's womb, could cut that thread and end his bouncing and prancing in the blink of an eye. How fragile it all is. And him so unaware as he sleeps so soundly, curled up where he feels so safe.
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