Late last night Mini asked me to fix him his favourite ham and salami sandwich for an "after-dinner snack". And since I don't have the strength to argue over such trivialities anymore, I went ahead and complied with his ridiculous request at that crazy hour.

Later, as he sat by the window swinging his legs chomping on his midnight treat, he asked me how old he would be this year.

"Three," I said.

"You always say that," he argued, "But I should be nine at least. Don't you know how to count?" "

"Three," I repeated, "Remember Mini, that you will always be three."

Mini is right. He should be nine. But I can't let that happen. I remember the night he came to me. "He will look after you when I'm not here," his father said to me as he placed Mini in my arms. I guess he was much younger but he always behaved like a three-year-old. He still does. So in my mind he will always remain three. I think it's the most magical age to be.

"So now what?" Mini pestered on, "Am I going to be three forever? You're sillyculous you know that?"

"I know, that I am," I relented.

"Is that bastard ever going to come back," Mini asked me as I turned out the lights.

"Never."

"Where do we go from here then?"

"Ahead Mini, we always move ahead."

"But then...my age.."

"Except for that Mini, we always move ahead. Good night now."

"Good night then. He always was a basketurd, wasn't he?"

"No he wasn't. We were just not what he was looking for."