"The next time we have a sunny day" I told him almost a week ago, "we'll pick the blackcurrants."
Yesterday, the sun burst in and out of the clouds and so, in skittery sunshine, just before his nap, we picked the blackcurrants.
It was a silent and serious work. John buried his head in the bushes and plucked the currents with both hands whilst I pulled fist-fulls from the higher branches and then dropped them into his bowl.
Occasionally, the silence was broken as John scolded me for encroaching on his currant-picking territory, but mostly we worked with quiet concentration. Past the point at which I thought the novelty would wear thin, past the time at which he usually goes for a nap, past the point at which we had more than enough currents for our cake, and well into the afternoon.
And as we worked together, in the welcome warmth of the sudden sunshine, I thought about the time, two years ago, that I picked blackcurrants with my baby boy by my side. And I wondered how contentment could be complete and constantly evolving at the very same time.