The new recruits are easy to spot. Theirs are the
saddest faces. They have not yet mastered the
art of glancing at the watch in the time it takes to
place both hands on the back of your swinging
child and push them towards a height where they
can see their feet
kicking out at the clouds.
The old hands recognise each other. After a while it
becomes second nature. The practised concern of your
own voice as you console the owner of the newly cut
knee. Not the voice you use on Tuesday mornings.
Stuck in traffic. This is the voice you never think you�ll
have to lose.
Until it gets stuck in your throat.
You talk about Christmas, School and Mum. You make up
excuses for forgetting the play. You tease them about
their height and sit through cartoons that eat up the day.
You pick them up when they fall and drop them off at the
house. With one hand you are able to catch the arc of a
swinging child.
Wipe tears from a face.
Wave goodbye.