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Pena

I was writing late one night when my two-year-old woke from his sleep and asked,
“What are you doing, amma? Are you reading?”

“No,” I whispered, “I’m writing.”

He tilted his head, curious.
“Are you writing about me?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

“Are you writing about me using a pen?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m writing about you with a pen.”  I replied, pride swelling in my chest.

He smiled—a small, contented smile—then shut his eyes tight and drifted back into his cosy cot, returning to his midnight slumber.

That night, my son made me smile.
And my pen reminded me that my last chapter is still a very long way off—
to be written until my very last breath.



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