I had just turned six years old when I first became aware of my own mortality. I cried so hard and so long that night, the babysitter had to phone my parents who returned early from the dinner/dance they were attending.

I know that I made my parents very anxious because they were unable to discover the source of my distress, despite much gentle questioning. What however does a six-year-old child know about articulating such a profoundly terrifying realisation?

I suppose that I must have eventually drifted off to sleep in the consoling arms of my mother, the safest place in the entire world. Something dark and timeless had passed close by me but its business was elsewhere.

As I write this, I wonder what thoughts or prayers were in my mother’s heart that night.