Circles

Anne worried. It was what mothers did, she knew - worried every second their children were out of sight - growing up and away from them, living out those private, defining moments of childhood just out of view. But her worries weren't that her boys would get hurt or disappointed, ground down under the relentless, crushing bootheel of days (although she worried about that too). No, her worries were of a different sort.

At first, she'd been happy the boys got on so well - she knew it had been hard on Harry when his dad left and again when she started seeing Mark a year later, and she knew it had been hard for Louis to accept her only a year after his mum passed. But whatever their feelings were about having new grown-ups in their lives, they absolutely adored one another. From the very first.

Despite their two year age gap, Harry and Louis were quickly inseparable. They shared a bedroom and a toy-chest and a clothes closet (Harry swimming in Louis' jumpers, the bow of his prominent collar bone jutting out where the neck slid off his thin shoulders) and even seemed to share a secret language all their own. Sometimes, when Anne turned away from the stove, she'd find the two of them sitting quietly across from one another at the table, their eyes locked in an intense stare, and even though they were absolutely silent, she could swear they were talking. It gave her the willies. The first time she'd seen it she'd spilled pancake batter all across the floor in surprise. Both boys had quickly scrabbled to help clean the mess, and she'd thought, well now I'm just being silly, aren't I? But then, it happened again and again and she didn't feel so silly anymore.

It was easy when they were younger, well, not easy, but easier. The boys sliding around on the hardwood floors in their socks and Spiderman pants, as she made supper, Harry trotting along at Louis' heels like a loyal dog. They took swimming lessons in the summer and came home smelling of chlorine and hanging off her legs as she fixed their afternoon tea, warm and clingy and talkative. Harry loved animals and she took them to the zoo and the aquarium, where she bought them matching stuffed penguins. Harry left his on the train a few weeks later and cried and cried until Louis convinced him they could share.

On rainy days, Anne built Harry and Louis blanket forts in the family room and they'd spend hours inside, talking and laughing and reading stacks of books by torchlight. In the darkness, their silhouettes were stitched to the sheets of the brightly-lit tent like cameos in a golden locket. Part of her wished she could keep them that way forever, wished they would be children forever, their sun-browned skin smelling of salt, their little arms tight around her neck as they pulled her into a hug.

Louis' favorite book was Peter Pan and he always begged her to read it to them at bedtime, Harry snuggling up under Louis' armpit as she read.

"[Wendy] also said she would give him a kiss if he liked, but Peter did not know what she meant, and he held out his hand expectantly.

"Surely you know what a kiss is?" she asked, aghast.

"I shall know when you give it to me," he replied stiffly, and not to hurt his feeling she gave him a thimble.

One day, when Anne was sewing a hole in Harry's dungarees, Louis had come up and started rummaging through her sewing kit.

"Be careful. There are pins in there, love." Anne set her sewing down, pulling Louis up into her lap. He smelled of grass and chocolate and there was a plaster over one of his chubby knees. Harry had a matching one, even though he didn't have a boo boo because Louis had one so he'd wanted one too. "What are you looking for?"

"A thimble."

"What do you need a thimble for?" she asked, tucking her chin into the small, warm crook of Louis' shoulder.