Sorrow and Bliss

by Meg Mason

Out of Ingrid’s sons, the middle one is my favourite because he is shy and anxious and ever since he could walk, a constant holder-on to things – handfuls of her skirt, his older brother’s leg, the edge of tables. I have seen him reach up and hook the tips of his fingers into Hamish’s pocket while they are walking next to each other, taking two steps to every one of his father’s. Putting him to bed once, I asked him why he liked having something in his hand. At the time he was holding the strip of flannel he slept with. He said, ‘I don’t like it.’ I asked him why he did it then. ‘So I don’t sink.’ He looked at me nervously, as if I might laugh at him. ‘My mum wouldn’t be able to find me.’ I told him I knew what that felt like, not wanting to sink. He held up the piece of flannel and asked me if I needed it; he would give it to me. ‘I know you would but it’s okay. Thank you. It’s your lovely thing.’ With the flannel still in his hand, he reached up gently, tugged the end of my hair until my face was very close to his and whispered, ‘I actually have two the same.’ If I changed my mind, I could tell him. He rolled onto his side and went to sleep with the fingers of his other hand curled around my thumb.