The final sprint

This morning Tom leapt from a great distance on to me as I lay in bed, “you promised to take me running this morning, Mummy!  Come on!


His exuberance for life never ceases to amaze me and bring a big smile to my face.


I had been lying peacefully in the soft dancing sunlight of an early Sunday morning, allowing myself to mindfully feel my feelings.  I was consciously feeling every little hair on my face move as a solitary tear from each corner of each eye slid down my cheeks to nestle and hang under my cheekbone.  I could feel their silvery-ness and cool iciness as gravity pulled their path downwards, waiting for the others nestled in my lashes to join them.


The Big Man had been unable to sleep, creeping downstairs to work on business proposals, preparing sympathetic consultation interviews, make comments on the survey of our dream house … and to read my blog.  He had perched on the side of my bed, sweaty from a run and looked at me with tired, exhausted, tearful eyes.  Sometimes there are no words required between soulmates, just the eyes as windows to a soul that is shared.


Tom and I did run.  And Willy came too.  We ran and we ran fast and we sprinted and in between we caught our breath and smiled through our puffing.  The final sprint to home is always the longest, the hardest, when everything hurts.  But it is always the most rewarding, beneficial and exhilarating as you heave to the finish and allow every muscle to relax and sigh with relief.


My tears are for him.  For us.  We are so close.  This is our final sprint.


And then we can heave and sigh with relief.

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