To write this, I had to check the year that my mother died. It was 2019. The funeral was in April 2019. I’ve blocked it all out.
Upstairs, on my youngest son’s bed is a green sleeping bag. It’s now a second layer for cold nights. My mother bought it for me when I was eight, 40 years ago. I was a Cub, and was going camping. It must have been one of the first times that I was away from my parents overnight.
I have a hazy happy memory of her giving it to me, but can’t remember the details. It’s 40 years ago. Forty!
I think she’d like that it is keeping her youngest grandson warm. I know she would.
My oldest son isn’t a Cub. But he’s eight and going away with his school on a “residential”. He’s excited. He needs to bring a sleeping bag. It will be one of the first times he’s been away from his parents overnight.
And now I’m standing in front of the sleeping bags at Brighton Decathlon with tears in my eyes trying to decide which one to buy.
I’m going to get him a good one, that I hope will last a long time.
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