Tea and the Unopened Roses and the Wren and Missing Him

I've been thinking about my little great nephew who was 5 years old today.

After I pick Robin up from his day at the Mede 'It wasn't too bad, as we say in English',  he wants to go for a drive. It's boiling hot - 20 degrees. I suggest Otterton Mill Cafe. As it's near closing time there are very few people and I decide to risk having tea.  Robin chooses apple and pear juice - he doesn't have fizzy water or fizzy drinks any more as I think they make him cough. And a frangipane slice. I feed him small forkfuls and he doesn't cough or choke once. 

We sit in the shade of a beech tree and a silver birch all entwined with a wild rambling rose dripping with thousands of tiny green unopened buds.  There is a bird which we can't see making a huge song high up in the branches. He finally shows his face just briefly. He's tiny and when I catch sight of his little turned up tail I know he's a wren. Which explains his loud voice. Just for a moment it feels like he is singing for us. Just as we are in this moment. 

Like the tiny rose buds which aren't open yet. Robin isn't like he was in the past  and he'll be different in the future. And all the while  that I'm bound up in trying to work out the next thing to do for the best, the next intervention, watching and waiting for the next change, I'm missing him just as he is now. Missing enjoying him. And myself.