“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” comes rambling down the gentle slope to the brook followed by a grubby boy of nine, “That wasn’t meant to hit you ma’am. I was…I was throwing it at the….at the…” He stops, his words faltering as his sneakered feet patter to a halt on the carpet of moss and leaves.

I sit up, adopting my stance as the rightfully perturbed adult, intruded upon by this insolent and uncareful child. My anger and indignity flare like a burst of sunlight through branches budged by an obstinant wind, they desert me just as quickly. I know that look. Somehow, I know where his excuse was going before it was abandoned as not an excuse an adult will accept.

This is a child at play, eyes still open to the unseen world of imagination, knees still dirty from joyful play. This is what I’ve lost.

My face goes soft, and my hand extends warmly, “Come, child, come and sit.” He obeys, as children do. “Now, dear boy, please tell me.” I flash a grin and wink, “Tell me what we shall hunt today.”