ABSTRACT
When I go to collect 6-year-old Ryan from the waiting-room, I am struck by a picture of a boy in a real transition. He is sitting next to his social worker, surrounded by a pile of luggage. When he sees me, Ryan picks up a duffel bag, which he drags along the corridors to the therapy room. Having arrived in the room, he tips up the bag, and his toys spill out onto the floor—first some soft toys, and then cars and games. I feel that he is showing me his most precious possessions, all that he has at this moment. He hands me one of his soft toys—I find I am glad to hold onto its softness at this poignant moment. Ryan starts to play with his cars, telling me about the ones that are his best. Gradually I talk to him about how he seems to be carrying his luggage with him today; that I know he has come from one foster home and is moving to another after he has seen me. He tells me that he liked where he was, it was quiet there. He pauses and seems to reflect. I say that it sounds as if it was a place he liked to be, and it was perhaps quite hard to leave. He nods in agreement.
