It is a perfect chilly spring day. We power up the hill in a technicolour assortment of fabric. Pink cheeks and merrymaking blue eyes peek out from faces covered in woodland creature headgear.

I am thinking of my step count. Of what to make for dinner. Of that stupid email received earlier. Of that phone call I have been putting off making.

But I am also thinking of your small gloved hands. The way you scamper. How your sister waits for me to catch up. We are united in purpose, our destination obvious.

You frown at the heaps of litter we pass, you notice the fat pigeon squawking atop the opposite roof. Your sister collects twigs and uses them as makeshift crutches.

This ritual provides so much comfort. Despite the insistent panic crowding my thoughts, there is unalloyed delight in my capacity to perform this maternal task.

Yes, I am worried about tripping. Yes, the cars are too fast. Yes, the pavement is too steep. But I can set the pace so I will not stumble.

We are together, climbing the hill to the park, revelling in each other’s company.