Wilbrecht is five today.
And, you know, I wonder what it might be like, if you were on your own – that you loved someone, maybe, but that maybe they didn’t know, or that it just wasn’t the right time or place to tell them – if maybe, it might choke in your throat, to see a room full of happy, healthy, bright children, and to think – I could do that. One of those screaming, laughing little whelps could have been mine. If she hadn’t died. If she had known.
That everyone you knew, even the unlikely, even the plain and the unpromising, belonged. And there you were, at twenty-ish, single, a widower, someone who had known what it was to be a part of a little commonwealth, and who had lost it. Thinking, perhaps, that life was unfair, and wondering what your own children might have looked like, if you had been blessed.
If she hadn’t died.
How you might have loved your never-children. Dried their tears, kissed bumps and grazes, told stories. Wiped noses. And it would have all been a kind myth, because you would have been just as cross and impatient as any other of these harrassed parents at times, but not in your never-world.
They loved their children, even in 1645.
Reckon we need to get Luce married off?