She runs to the leaves. She runs through them, scattering auburn oak leaves, feet disappearing in their depth, diving into windblown heap, swimming in leaves - body-surfing.
She runs to the soccer centre circle, stepping onto the line and following it, running round, to jump into Grandad coming from the other direction.
Once is not enough - turn, and run the line to the end of the circle. "Again." "Again."
She runs to the Azalea garden, and runs, following random paths - sheer joy in choosing forks: "This way".
She runs to the steps down to the stream, down to the ducks, throwing bread from the bridge. Most of the bread - also wolfing slices to re-fuel - then throwing another slice up-stream and rushing to the other side to see it washed down under the bridge. Pooh sticks! And ducks! So much fun!
"Again Grandad."
Out of bread, she runs up the hill to the old staff club (empty in the morning), up to try the door, explore the deck, the ramp, the steps, the smokers' seats. "Don't touch that. Dirty."
Off to the trees. Hiding. "Is she there, behind this one? No. This one? Where's she gone?" Peeping out from the next tree, but not there when the old man gets there!
Off she goes, tree to tree, heading for the road. "Hold my hand when we are by the road. Ready for home?" Grandad is! So they turn back.
Then they walk past a gate back into the park: she's off again. Back to the centre circle. And again. Back to the Azalea garden. Finally back on the footpath holding hands.
Walking now.
Stop to watch a tyre being changed. Exhausted suddenly after two hours of running, she lies down on the footpath. Sprawled on the path. Worn out by too much life, unable to get up.
"Ready to go?" Nothing.
"Let's go and tell Mum about the ducks." Nothing.
"Can I carry you?" Arms reach up, and she is swung up onto Grandad's shoulders. That's better - grabs Grandad's ears (!) and off they go. Home.
No comments:
Post a Comment