When my grandson was four

And often in my care,

One fine spring afternoon

We went to the nearby park

For play on the swings, the bars, the whirligig -

To enjoy the warm sunshine

And our own company.

 

He was gungho about his tricycle

And pedalled along the pavement

At risk to life and limb

Coming to an abrupt halt at the corners,

Respectful of 'rules'

Of Nana's slower footsteps

And her concern for his safety.

 

Inside the park he hopped off his bike

And leapt about gleefully on the grass

Like any young thing in delicious freedom.

He poked his head into the shrubbery

And then, his whole self was engulfed.

A moment later he stuck his head back out.

'What are you doing?' I asked.

 

'I'm looking for sticks!

There are lots in here.

Do you want to come in, too?'

'No, thanks. I'll wait here.

I'll watch your pile for you.'

And he scooted back into the bushes

Grinning with delight.

 

For almost an hour

He hunted, selected and sorted

Extending his range through the thick brush.

His pile got bigger and bigger

And more unwieldy by the minute.

Finally, he had enough.

He was satisfied, and he was tired.

 

He lay down on the grass by his bike

Quite out of puff

His eyes dancing.

'Time to go home.' he said.

'OK.' And I slipped on my shoes.

I stood up to depart, but he didn't move.

For a moment, I didn't 'get it'.

 

'Oh!' and I started to laugh.

'Are you taking these home with you?'

'Yes!'

'And how are you planning to ride your bike

And carry the branches at the same time?'

He just looked at me.

'OH!'

 

So I gathered up his precious sticks

Wrapping my arms around them tightly

Not to lose a single one.

When we got home we made lemonade

And then, he disappeared into the garden -

To 'build a house.' A HOUSE!  HIS OWN SPACE!

It was altogether a very interesting afternoon.

 

 

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas, May, 2019