Little Boy

The little boy, not any higher than my waist, plays with his other little friends on the playground. I sit back and watch the scene unfolds before my eyes.

He is a little taller than the rest, and that makes him stand out. His soft black hair sways gently in the wind as he runs, dribbling the ball in front of him. Needless to say, I am drawn to the soft features of his face - his long eyelashes, so unlike mine; the bright eyes that are browner than his peers. He breaks into a hearty smile whenever he's happy, exposing the gap between his front teeth. He is the most perfect little boy there is.

As I watch them get down and dirty with the sand and mud, I am slowly lost in my own thoughts. "Kring! Kring!" The familiar bell comes again. And the groups of kids on the playground - girls and boys alike - disperse and begin to approach the old man. I smile and notice how good his timing is, that pragmatic businessman of an ice-cream seller. 

The little boy comes running to me. His cherubic face is covered in sweat. His hands hold on to mine. We share the same skin colour. "Who is your father?" Increasingly the question finds its way into my mind.

But the same question escapes me again, when he asks: "Mummy, can I have an ice-cream?"