The bright blue of the sky is dotted here and there by the yellows and the reds of the kites. The children, my grandchildren, run round and round the compound chasing the wind. They glow; their joy is infectious. To look at them is to remember when I was young,when I would run, like a dog chasing its own tail
,chasing the wind. I can’t help but smile.
The sun feels like a warm caress on my old bones. The grass, a lush sight for my tired eyes. Though still confined to my wheelchair, there is none that feels more blessed to be outside today.
The boy, just turned five last month, stumbles over his untied laces and falls. For a moment, a grimace passes over his face, but as is the way with boys, his tears stay balanced on his eyelashes. After five minutes,when play has resumed, he runs to his mother.
He comes back to me. Maybe his mother sent him. He’s speaking, arms gesticulating and mouth moving animatedly. I nod when he pauses and looks at me expectantly.
He doesn’t know that I can’t hear him. None of them know that growing old came with more than just grey hair, creaky bones and spotty memory.
I won’t tell him yet. Today is not a day for bad news.