Sleepy Saturday 

The sky outside, a pale grey canvas, has only the odd note of brightness as the afternoon edges to evening. Inside is the right place to be, to watch the day draw to a close.

Inside it is cosy. Inside it is quiet. Cars saunter by on the road outside and the shutters rattle in their frame, but the only sounds in here are the gentle rhythms of two snoozing boys. 

Their breaths don’t quite synchronise; one exhales loudly, the other more irraticly, still new to this world. In every other way, however, the likenesses are undeniable. Same restful gaze. Same flickering eyes. 

Thirty years apart, the very definition of different generations, the younger is a mirror of the older, both sound asleep as Saturday draws to a close.  
And the priveldge of looking on is mine. As I turn the pages of my magazine with care, desperate to avoid disrupting the peace, I’m grateful for these moments, the loves of my life and me on a sleepy Saturday afternoon. Nowhere to go, no one to see, just time for a rest as us three.


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