It seems their father is ill, cursed perhaps with cancer. His frailty worsening as the cricket season progresses. Now he comes armed with a walker, his arms bandaged, perhaps from transfusions, I don't know, his voice rasping, hoarse, disappearing. His wife or partner now cast in the role of carer.
How painful for these children, not yet teenagers, to watch this deterioration, to see the body embracing their father 's spirit whither and succumb to this illness which right now appears to be the stronger force. Stronger than the treatment provided by his doctors, and all the medical knowledge of centuries behind them.
I don't think he can win this battle, although I want to barrack for him, it seems impossible to come back from the point he is at. My heart is so sad for these children learning this lesson so young. How will they react, should he pass, beyond the infinite grief, will they be angry, feel cheated, afraid. They are tall proud looking children. Will they realise, fully, more so than those who have not experienced such a monument loss, the absolute preciousness of life.
So tragic to be blessed with the unusual circumstance of triplets, then be pulled away just as they begin to blossom.
I take for granted sometimes my time doing the mundane things, like watching them play cricket. I often read my book while sitting there, and travel off to an imagery world, forgetting that I won't have an infinite supply of experiences with my boys. I must remember this poor brave man, and cherish the moments of sweetness that I get to share with my brown eyed delicious boys.
And as a community, it will be up to us all, to make contributions to the lives of those kids, if their father can't win this final fight.