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.