Purveyor of Tall Tales.

Seven

Bridgend, South Wales.
23rd April, 2020

 Dear Ziggy,

You should be seven today. Seven. A magic number. I still can’t picture you now. You’re a back that is always turned, a glimpse of dark hair and a slight frame moving just out of view. A ghost.

The world has turned upside down once more. This time for everyone. As I write this, we’re hunkered down in our house with your brother and your sister as a new virus spreads around the world. The fragile illusion of control that we lost some time ago has broken for everyone but for us it means we cannot be on the beach – not our beach or any other. We will go as soon as we can. That’s the trouble with magic. When it’s withheld, you just have to face whatever is out there in the dark.

Your kind and gentle brother asks about you from time to time. He wants to light a candle for you. Your sister is a wild spirit who enjoys making everyone laugh and loves running around after your mother in the garden. I wish you could know your brother and sister.

Your mum is still painting. I wish you could see the pictures hanging on the walls. She loves the garden as well, especially when she feels sad, and I think there’s something about being outside that just really helps. Beach or no.

I’m still writing. I don’t know what else to do. I really wish you could read them.

I wish.

Happy birthday, my beautiful boy. I have sent you a story as is our tradition. A sequel of sorts, this year. I hope it finds you somewhere, somewhen and you enjoy.

Mammy and Daddy love you very much.

Penblwydd hapus, cariad. Taith ddiogel.

Love you, cariad,

Dad
xxx

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