hi5

It was the artist's son's birthday today. The brightest face in the land beamed five years of joy at us both this morning. My son. His excitement was as wonderful and as innocent and as a flower without cynicism. He ran through the room like an erupting balloon to gather up his presents. Paper and tape were ripped apart. Gifts were revealed. A dungeon of doom was erected. Ghosts were planted in cages. His elder sister, whose own birthday it is in a couple of days, was on hand for him. Whatever he wished for she would endeavour to get for him. He did everything. He leapt. He spun. He played with his toys as if under their spell. (The artist took one last look at her work and covered it up.) And then the birthday boy led his creative troupe - the four of us - out the door to buy the food to feed the family on its way to the party. Five years old today, I am thinking. Five. I watch the artist marvel at her son's progress on this planet. She knows the children are her greatest creation. That is her edge. We returned home. I had twisted a nerve in my back and was straining like a clown to get everything ready in time. But of course when the people began arriving it was all somehow in shape. We ate salmon and creme fraiche mixed with lemon juice sandwiches and roast beef with lettuce and gherkins in sandwiches. The birthday boy played with his cousin, again watched admiringly by the artist. There was the odd grey cloud above, competing with the blue sky. There was laughter from the next garden but one - another party. The artist looked content throughout, like a selfless critic at an exhibition. She is at her strongest when giving, I was thinking. The birthday boy continued playing and running. He looked older and acted accordingly. There was also an assertion to his stride, and a confidence to laugh. This is the peace we defend.