Josh went to the playground by himself for the first time today. I cried when he closed our front door.
Perhaps this was an overreaction. Ten is grown up, and our village is so quiet the odds of any sort of trouble, or even a car, are rare. And he has always been sensible. So quiet. So keen to wander back over to me at parties.
This had to be more healthy than the time spent with his science kits. All those hours up in the darkness of his room with those oily, chemical smells. The educational value stopped me implementing confiscation, but all those fumes made me think of brown, kippery lungs.
So when he told me he had made friends, and wanted to meet them in the park, I had to be happy for him. I had to be pleased. This was a chance for fresh air and boyhood adventures.
But the second that door closed, all the fear rushed up like a burst pipe in an abandoned church. I thought of cracked heads at the bottom of dirty slides. Cuts from broken glass. Shattered teeth near see-saws.
Spying was never my aim. The decision to follow him was in the ballpark of a maternal check-in. A chance to view a snapshot of childhood, and then return to my daily life knowing he was enjoying the swings.
But he was not on the swings. He was on the roundabout. His friends were too.
All were basically human shape. SIime dripped from the ears of some, and others had scales that ran from throat to forehead. Neon skin drooped over aluminum seats. One had teeth longer than my kitchen knives.
Josh looked over and waved. Such a different boy to even yesterday.
‘It’s OK Mum. I made friends, like you wanted. Say hello everyone.’
A chorus of bubbling murmurs rose from his companions. Not language, but more like forcing air through half closed lips. Their potential hands moved in possible greeting gestures, but it may have been a lack of bones and cartilage flapping in the wind.
I knew a response was necessary. Polite. But Josh had never introduced me to his friends before. I had no idea what greeting was appropriate.
