He’s slept bare-chested and bare-foot for so long now that he can hardly remember what it feels like to be cold. Or to snuggle up in a blanket, holding on jealously to the sleepy warmth of his bed when Daddy comes to wake him with a bottle of milk and a little flurry of cold air.
For weeks and weeks – so, a good proportion of his two-year life, if you think about it – he’s drifted off to sleep to the soothing drone of a fan, splayed out on his back, his cheeks rosy and sun-drenched.
But for the past few days, things have been changing. Only slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Night by night.
First, there was the night when the fan didn’t need to go on after all. He listened out for the hum… but silence had returned to his bedroom.
Then, the next night, he wore a t-shirt to bed, and sometime during the night, he found himself curling his little bare legs up under his body, tucking them away from the cooler night air.
The night after that, he felt around the bed for his blanket, pulled it absently over his body. He felt snug and protected.
Tonight, when he climbs into bed, happy, as he always is, to return to this little corner of the house that is his and his alone, he will be wearing stripy socks and maybe even some pyjama bottoms. He will wiggle his toes, trying out the new sensation: material against flesh.
He doesn’t know the word yet but he feels it in his bones and in his little stripy bed socks: Autumn.
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