I am more than sick of this nappy bucket. I grimace with green virtue; wrist-deep in tainted water, nose wrinkling, it’s not so easy. My eyes are grimy-tired. It’s a toss-up whether 3am or 5am would be my least favourite time to be up. Maybe 4am, after both the others.
Felix appears at the door. "Yuk," he says, standing there in his suit and slightly loosened tie. "Dinner?"
You preside on the kitchen bench, gumming a rattle, sometimes laughing at the silly noises your dad makes to you as he chops and stirs.
You raise me up, both of you.
More info on You Raise Me Up. Josh Groban's version would be my favourite.
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