On tiptoes I reached up to the window ledge, eyes wide, hoping to see the first shoots of spring. Just yesterday I sat with mama - her, me, mud, newspaper and beans. We made little pots using our hands, the black and white strips becoming something new, something capable of holding new life. Oddly, once the soil was inside they became more stable, like proper pots. We stood them in a tray, added a bean to each and water too. She said to be patient, there is nothing yet, but I know every morning will be the same, standing here on tip toes until they grow tall enough to be planted in our garden.
The peace is shattered by a child, running, screaming with delight. He whoops into the frigid air, his red coat garish against the sombre London park. Heads turn, a dog barks, a duck skitters out further into the pond. In this city of noise the tranquil places are jealously guarded - the children expected to mirror the adults.
Rosie moves like an octopus on a bad acid trip, limbs moving according to chaos theory rather than anything a behavioural scientist could explain. Her words are running into one another and if I didn't know that there was going to be a pony coming to her class at school today, I wouldn't have a clue what she's saying. Nevertheless, five minutes later she's been wrestled into her grey uniform and red cardigan. She puts on her own shiny black shoes before she recalls that it's breakfast that comes next.
Asking Pan to sit today is like trying to tell a fire not to burn. His eyes are alight, his every muscle needs to move, to dance, to jump. He chatters and observes, giggles and jokes. Everything tickles him as funny and if there is one idea coming from his mouth there are seven more queuing up in his mind.
Pete looks like he's being jangled by invisible strings from above, only his puppeteer is drunk. The only thing I can make out beneath his moving hair is a smile that could light up any day, no matter how dark. Isn't that the gift that children bring? To show us a spark of pureness in the hope that ours is still able to shine back at them.
They say you can't bottle love but I say they're wrong. Tyrone is the proof. Have you seen him run with that bouncy stride of his? Have you seen how wide is smile is or how wide he reaches for every hug? That is kid is love in a bottle; just seeing him makes the rest of us glad to be alive.
There is something so intoxicating about an excited child. They bounce, they pounce, they squeal and they run. As their grins get wider everyone about them starts to smile - even the curmudgeons who love to complain. That's how Cindy is today, as if she's bursting with liquid sunshine from within.
To the touch the snake is silky. Tristan runs his hands up and down like he does with his cat at home expecting roughness when he rubs toward the head. Instead it is more similar to stroking glass, but softer. "Oooh!" he says and the snake turns toward him, forked tongue shooting in and out. Tristan stops, gazing in the same way he'd take in the night sky. "Round," he squeaks, "round eyes!" After a few seconds more the serpent coils away from him to examine another child...
The halloween sun isn't fully set and already the candy wrappers blow over the leaf-strewn sidewalk. Tonight I am a ghost, concealed and shrouded like the dead I pretend to be. Around each wrist hangs a chain to clank as we walk. With the sun so low in the sky the scene reminds me of years ago, the picture before me is almost sepia toned. Only the new-model cars give it away that this isn't nineteen seventy something. Next to me walks the most important vampire in the world, seven years old and she wears the false fangs like a pro. She's a strange one though, for her it isn't even about the chocolates and lollipops. Tonight the world is her stage and she feeds on the drama through her skin. She doesn't really walk either, she stalks, head high, chin out, arms moving like she's conducting the clouds above.
In moments Sophie was forced into an ambling jog to keep up. With each footfall she felt her back-side wobble, not that she was fat, but simply under-toned. As her speed increased so did her breathing and this sharper intake of sub-zero air was painful to her throat and lungs. She began to walk, her black boots making small splashes on the rain-kissed tarmac path and she called out for Lacy to slow. But Lacy was deaf to all but the call of the jungle animals. They inhabited her dreams and were the stars of the stories she wrote at school. Her mind was a jumble of what the animals would think of her, would they speak? Would they look like the pictures in the story books? Could she feed them the dog treats in her pocket? Instead of slowing her skips got faster and her lead over her slow cousin increased.
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