Moments and Memories

Those who know me personally, those who follow me and those who have trawled through the often mad muddled musing of a boy boldly brandishing damn near every ounce of his being through the privilege of words, will undoubtedly at one time or another have encountered the name ‘Shiloh’. If not that, then – his official title – “my beautiful boy” as it has become almost as synonymous with this miniature version of me as his own name is. Interestingly enough, Shiloh isn’t even the name on his birth certificate but that is a story for another time.

Shiloh is about to start nursery and as is often the case, such an event causes a steady influx of bubbles to make their ascent in the great cauldron of retrospect. As each shimmering memory is plucked from the dark abyss, a moment in time is relived and we begin to wonder where it all went so quickly.
Much like children tend to do, this beautiful boy of mine seems to be growing all too rapidly. When I think back to the very first moment I held him in my arms – his little body against my chest and he, much to my utter surprise, clasped his tiny hand around my chain and held on as if grasping life itself – and compare that to the thoughtful, inquisitive, mischievous and rambunctious three year old he is now, I feel as though I’ve missed something because the two versions of him seem a lifetime apart.

That’s the thing about children; they have a way of simultaneously distorting and putting time into unquestionable perspective. To watch a child grow is so intensely humbling, precious and devilishly disorientating. It’s like watching sand silently slink through the narrow niche of an hourglass. So much happens so fast that you have to stop and think to realize how much time has elapsed, leaving you with moments. Moments in time archived in the library of our mind as memories that become the crux of who we are.

The things we experience moment-to-moment, how and what we felt and feel about them, they all exist within the recesses of our mind. We live within and beyond these memories and moments because ultimately they’re all we have in this world. From the moment of conception, in spite of our physical form, we become a perpetual series of thoughts and memories that all clash, collide and coincide with each other and we meet in the ether, somewhere in between it all; hoping our apparitions do not fade before we die because those memories are the link between what was and what is.

So I cherish my moments and smile at the memories. Ones such as, the first time he called me “Danjewl”, teaching him to catch, the hilarity of potty training, and as an endless slew of moments recollected like these that swirl the aching basin of my pensieve, sometimes to the point where I feel overwhelmed by what seems like a constant surge of vivacious, vivid Technicolor images viciously dancing through my mind in the form of a beautiful storm. A storm I am willingly engulfed by, which transports me to a familiar scene and allows me to relive one of these wonderful moments with my beautiful boy. Again, so much so fast; and this makes me worry sometimes. I wonder; will I be able to have a resoundingly positive affect on him in whatever time we have left together? After all, few of us ever bear the double-edged sword of knowing when death will embrace us and inhale our body’s final breath.

When I am gone, will I have spent enough time with him? Will I have told him everything he should know? Will I have helped him create and shape himself into a individual – one that he is proud to be – and will he be strong enough to deal with the sometimes thunderous turmoil life can throw your way in the darkest of hours. Or will I be just another negative influence in a sea of deep despair, who helps create a child just as broken as I was and isn’t necessarily capable of overcoming?

It seems rather morbid a thought doesn’t it? But shouldn’t we all be more aware and perhaps weary of how negatively we can affect children and how easily we can do so? I know the thought is one of prevalence for most, if not all the parents I know and I suppose it is a mildly irrational fear born and bred from the sheer depth of love. We want the best for them – these little creatures who are so often born into the silhouette of Atlas himself as representations of hope, change and the future. What a bold burden that is. For me, this beautiful boy is so much more than a representation of those things. He is the depiction of how much beauty there is to life and how much there is yet to come. Each day I’ve had the honour and pleasure of watching him grow in stature and character, each fleeting second I spend in his presence, with every beat my heart thunders for him and every thought my mind roars I simply and emphatically love him more and more. I hope I do enough to leave this world with him secure in that knowledge. I don’t know. Perhaps I just think too much, but to Shiloh, the children who could have been and to those who could still be, know this: I love you all endlessly and I will give you all I can in this world.

For now, I leave you with a moment that absolutely melted my heart.

He is sat, quietly, next to me watching the world dash by in blurred snapshots doused in the warm illumination of streetlights through the window of the train. His little brown eyes meet mine as he turns his head and looks up at me. “Am I your Shiloh?” he asks. I smile, “Of course you are baby boy.” He smiles and responds: “You’re my Danjewl.” I have no words, I am a split second away from crying and all I can do is hug him and tell him I love him.

 Jack.