Far from home

Living far from my wife and our baby wouldn't be so difficult if it were not for the great moments that I miss every day. In the last few weeks my son started walking - I wasn't there to witness his first steps. He's learned to punch (with his little fist); the first (and main) victim was his cousin, a little girl 4 months his senior, who until that point always beat him. He has, in the last few weeks, developed an interest in chasing and torturing the cat; he follows it wherever it goes and, gripping it by its fur, "plays" with it. Poor, patient animal: I'm so thankful that it hasn't scratched him so far.

I miss him so much that every time we talk I ask my wife to hold the phone close to him so I can hear his breathing. He tries to grab the phone and, once he does, doesn't give it back. He bites his mother, his uncles, his cousin. He probably tries to bite the cat when he's on his own.

I look forward to seeing him walk, even run, the day we meet. I even secretly wish that he'll run towards me and I'll lift him up high, landing kiss after kiss on his cheeks and neck. Except that this is wishful thinking. Because it is very likely he'll not recognise me when we meet. He probably won't have forgotten me completely by that time, but he'll not easily recognise me either.

Thus, when I think about the sacrifice that I'm making, the rewards of this self-imposed exile seem very dubious.

Death cometh to Cambridge

The festive season is about to come to Cambridge and all the university buildings will be closed for at least 10 days. So will the Grads Cafe on the 3rd floor of the University Centre building, where I like to spend some time off my daily work, reading newspapers and having cup after cup of relatively cheap coffee. So will the many other nice and cosy places where one can go when in need of a change. The town will be literally dead for these 10 days and, because I do not enjoy Christmas, this time promises to be quite boring.

My room is cold and sitting there from morning till night is not the prospect that I look forward to - but it seems that's where I'll spend the dead season.

A melancholy dream

An image visits me out of the blue, a melancholy dream that comes to me while I'm wide awake; in it, I see my baby son in my grandfather's garden. The boy is barely two years old and it is autumn; he chases one falling leaf after another, trying to catch it in its flight before it can join its withered brethren covering the garden ground like a thick carpet. Late afternoon light of late October sifts through the few leaves that keep stubbornly holding on to their branches, forming long straight light sabres that pierce the crowns of the trees above and burns bright orange spots in the leaf carpet. My baby notices neither the melancholic beauty of his surroundings nor the silence of the world that has held its breath listening to him play; he merrily goes on with his game, as mindless of the history attached to this familial garden as he is of the struggles of manhood that await him in the world of tomorrow.