She loves the time and space a holiday gives for watching. She feels for the iPad kid playing undisturbed while Mum and Dad fill their mouths. She feels for them too. The lack of discourse; the fact of their not trying. She marvels at the plate pilers at the buffet, squeezing just one more delicacy; a syrupy pastry or sugared lump of jelly onto an already full platter. Her heart reaches out to the skinny teen placing a crimson triangle of watermelon at the centre of a white ceramic dish, while at the same time thinking, how beautiful, how controlled. As evening falls, a wide-eyed, up-beyond-bedtime toddler kneels to sip lemonade through a straw from a tall glass. The singer spots her and smiles, chooses to sing Que Sera Sera. On cue the little girl catches hold of her mother’s hand, pulls her to her feet and they both dance. The song ends. The singer concludes, that one was for mothers everywhere. Somewhere deep in her old bones, the watcher sighs.
