He keeps growing.
Sometimes months go by before we meet again, in his room, the room that once belonged to me, and we smile, we laugh, and he gifts me a few days of attention, hugs and brotherly love.
Suddenly he speaks. He tells me what he did that day, what he learnt, and that he loves me. He asks where I'm going every time I go.
Apparently when I'm not home, he calls me 'Tom at Uni' instead of Tom. Overwhelmingly cute, but stained by a drop of sadness.
He will be 3 in July.
And I won't be there.
I'll be taking on the world.
Well, I'll be taking on something, not quite sure what, but it is the world to me. It helps people, and I think one day he will be proud of me for that, Little George.
I can see it now. 17 years from now.
I pull into the pavement, sunglasses on (hopefully I'll suit sunglasses by then), beep the horn, and he'll wander on out. His hair light, but tinted with ginger strains, hopefully spotless and smiling. He'll ask how things are, and I'll ask back. We'll have chats. Long, meaningful conversations. I'll tell him about the past, tell him the stories I'm telling you. He'll tell me the same, but in the 17-years-from-now version. It'll be fun, interesting, enlightening.
But until then, I'll hold his little hands, and we'll smile, we'll laugh and I'll take his few days of attention.
They won't be little for long, and he won't let me hold them forever.