The Summer of Springsteen

The Boss has been with us since the beginning of July.  He's done four runs to the vaccination centre, He's come to Toulouse and back countless times.  He's done the station run from Bram to Mirepoix more often than I can remember.  He's gone down to the river with us every day and his harmonica plays even when your ears are under the water as you drift down the Hers on your back. 
My boy has learnt the chords, bent over Nico's guitar in the light of the angle-poise at night.  

Tonight is the last time I'll be able to listen to him.

The beautiful girls left for Paris and St Tropez and testosterone levels fell. 
 
For the last, precious couple of days my teenage progeny have become children again, just the three of us on the banks of the receding lake, their chatter in the shade of trees that were under water a month ago. 

My boy leaves for Ireland tomorrow. 
People tell me, in all kindness, that I'm not sending him off to war etc but my heart  hurts all the same. 
The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of  (thanks Blaise).

I walk through the woods while the children sing The River  behind me and I have to dive into the lake and swim under the water to hide it all. 
They do their childhood things; the Turtle, Lady of the lake.  They vie for my attention when they do handstands and insist I play with them instead of throwing sticks for the dog. 

In the same way as it's impossible to sneeze without closing your eyes, it's impossible to swim and cry.  So I swim to the island and look back at my little pin children and the running dog blob and love them all the more.
 
Distance makes you love, but separation is like having your heart twisted and drained dry.

Glory Days.