Walking down the Prom in Tramore this evening, I kept seeing little boys of around eight years of age. Ten years ago my own son was just about to turn eight. It is one of those perfect ages ~ full of interest in the world, bursting with energy and questions, growing independence but always ready with a hug and I mean the kind of hug that you want to bottle forever as you run your fingers through still curly hair.
As I thought of the precious eight-year old boy who was so cruelly swept from this life in Boston yesterday and of all those who have been left injured and bereft, it seemed like the world was a heart-breaking place. Yet, there was the laughter of innocent children dashing along to avoid being caught by the spray of the waves splashing playfully onto the Prom. The sea itself was…
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