“I can’t remember ever actually watching a dawn,” said my son in a plaintive little voice. He had been looking at some of my dawn photos, taken that morning from my doorstep. He has seen plenty of dawns… but most of them have been urban affairs, hours later than mine, when the light has cleared the rooftops and chimneypots of the town. Not proper dawns.
He has also, to my sure and certain knowledge, seen rural dawns too… but, because of the faulty memory caused by the brain injury he suffered some years ago, it is quite possible that he really does not remember them.
Busy, unthinking and caught on the hook of that wistful tone, I suggested that if he wasn’t such a lazy toad and got out of bed early enough, I could come down earlier, pick him up and drive him out somewhere to watch the dawn…
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