The room is dark, a dim light weakly illuminates the sleeping figure in a bed, his arms flung out beside him, deep in a dreamless sleep. His eyelashes sweep his perfect, smooth cheeks, his lips are rosebud soft and slightly parted to let out the sigh of his sleeping breath. His hair is dark and damp on this warm evening and peeking out from beside his sleeping form I see an edge of lined paper torn from his notebook.
"Look under my pillow" it reads.
The game is afoot, I gently slide his head to one side as I lift the pillow to discover three more scraps of paper, covered with his spidery, childish writing.
I love you even more than I can emajen.
A simple, sweet sentiment from my precious firstborn.
I peel away the first sheet to reveal a second, like delicious layers of a love-soaked millefeuille. He showers me with his passion filling me up with its sweet moreishness.
To mummy there is not a singel thing that I love more than you.
You are buyootafull
You are funny
I love you.
You blow my heart away. You are the best.
Has any woman's heart ever melted at such peerless prose? Has any mother been so loved? He dissolves me with his delightfulness. My boy, my precious, my reason. I will write him a note in return, but nothing can match the purity of his sentiment or the effort that he has put in to try to express that indefinable love we feel for one another.
But perhaps even more touching a testament to my kind hearted little boy is the final note I find at the bottom of the pile. Last, but far from least.
I love you
I did not want to leave you out
My heart swells with pride and adoration, I shall go to sleep with a smile on my face and his notes under my pillow.