In another life

In another life, he is our son. Walking with your father, who’d just bought him a pastry, his early adolescent tummy always hungry. Their different colours speak of love and acceptance. They’re not even noticed. They just are. Part of the rich fabric of our family. But neither of us wanted that life, or not together, anyway. Seeing the pair of them walking together entwined with golden waves of love made me think of you instantly, though, and that it would’ve been okay to tell your parents about me. My father would’ve come around too, and grown eager to shake your hand, knowing your loyal and sincere warm heart. None of our perceived differences would’ve mattered. Down they’d have tumbled as the power of our love disintegrated all those niggly redundant obstacles. How enriched all of us would’ve been, with fresh education, new foods and languages. Our shared values would have kept widening our common ground, solidifying underfoot. It brings me an odd sense of comfort to believe how light and happy and full of curiosity about each other we’d have continued to be. We both deserve that kind of happiness, grounded in the harmony we desire and base our lives on. I have faith we’d have created a peaceful life and smiled a very great deal.