Coming home last week from a six o’clock breakfast meeting, I noticed our neighbours’ lighted window.
The curtains were undrawn, two boys—7 and 8—were scampering hither and thither, their mother running in opposite directions.
We also had two boys. Now adults.
I can still remember them at the age of 7 and 8. My frustration at trying to wake them up several times, fighting to get them washed and dressed, running around like chickens with their heads cut off, while my wife prepared their breakfast and backpacks for school. Inevitably some article was missed or left behind, making me rush home to collect it, then hurry back to school to drop it off.
Our marriage took place when I was 38 and still a playboy with all my independence. No fun, in my forties, battling two truculent boys to school on time.
“Why am I doing this?” I constantly asked myself, ruing those days of freedom.
My boys have long since flown the coop.
Staring fixatedly at the hyperactivity in my neighbours’ bedroom, I recalled those bygone days.
Inexplicably, I miss them.
