Yesterday I found a summer photo of Finn in his pineapple sun hat when the three of us went crabbing down Ness Cove, probably one of the last we have of him without tubes shooting up his nose, and it hit me that that’s the day he invented Limpet – the creature he kept going on about on the ward when the Tramadol had kicked in and he’d tug and tug at our sleeves – and anyway, there you are standing next to him, back bent, even if life hasn’t walloped you yet, holding his green net. You’re talking about gastropods; not in your slow, this-won’t-hurt voice, but your discovery voice, your world’s-your-oyster voice. You’re telling him about periwinkles, about the limpets that cling to the rocks next to the barnacles and anemones. They cling so tight, you say, that the edges of their shells wear a hollow in the rock called a home scar. Finn is big-eyed and his mouth is packed with words. I want to tell the photo-taker – me – ditch the camera and kiss him! I want to say do you really need to cut a sunny day short so you can send an email? Just kiss him! Kiss him for all the years you’ll be feeling around for him in the hollow of your bed. Sit him on your lap and hold him and listen. Ask him to tell you about Limpet. What Limpet likes, what he’s afraid of, what the hell happens when he finally lets go.
