There is a baby lying in a crib. He has been named Emyr. His mother, Anwen, folds laundry in the kitchen. It is almost Emyr’s first birthday though he does not yet understand the concept of time or age or birthdays. He will learn that in due course. On this day Emyr is a happy child. He lies, eyes closed. Long dark lashes curling upward, away from his cheeks. He smiles as he sleeps. Afternoon sun dapples warm and carefree across his soft face. Light and shadow dance over his eyelids. The child is aware of layers of crimson and veridian and indigo. Their crystal shapes fold and swirl and merge into each other.
There is music in the dappled motion. From somewhere in the house, the baby hears his mother singing. An old song born from her mother’s song with deep, rich autumnal notes that rise up through the home and gently fold themselves around the child. The boy wriggles his feet to enjoy the soft embrace of the duck yellow hand me down baby grow as it stretches across his body. New notes emerge. His notes. The first notes of a new song, finding their way. Still small but strong and certain. Emyr feels safe. He feels love and comfort. Harmony and melody and rhythm are slowly coming together.