Tuesday 10 June 2014

And Still He Doesn't Cry




In the park outside the Cafesjian Museum in Yerevan, Armenia.

Holding both his hands
I swing him off the mini trampoline
his feet touch the grass and 
then up we go again landing him
back on the sprung canvas floor
one two three -  on
 one two three -  off.
Then, because he's heavy and I'm getting tired, I say

How about some bunny jumps in the middle?

I crouch at the edge of the trampoline
he jumps
and 
bang
his head collides with mine
sharp tingling thud.

I hold him tight
his face in my neck
waiting for his scream.
Oh, I'm so sorry, I say,
the horror in my throat
like acid.
I let go of his hands
it's my fault.
I've hurt him. 
He doesn't make a sound.

 His grandma lifts him from me
holds him in her arms
talking to him all the time.
And I run a tissue under the tap 
to wipe the blood 
from his lip.

And still he doesn't cry.

 Then we all three sit on the sofa and he shows me a Peppa Pig game on his mini iPad,
his little finger moving across the screen, little chuckles in his throat - releasing me from my guilt, my  shame, with his huge, forgiving, three year old heart.


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