Play (or Boyishness)

I believe in being whammed by play, playing with these words, playing with light, roughness, ready for a smile, a laugh, a joke, ready to please my grandad when I was young.

I remember the picture of me and my brothers around him, of him opening his mouth not only to smile but to laugh, to laugh aloud, to almost cry in laughter, in joy, when most of what I remember are his frowns, his sternness, his want to control.

But I rejoice for this mellowing moment, for turning my grumpy grandad into a gregarious one.

I remember some of his more shining moments too, like when he burrowed in his garage to present me with a fishing rod, a totally unexpected grace when I was in a state of inner pain.

I was down, deadly and depressed, I needed solace, I needed truth – an elderly presence to guide me, even to protect me.

Grandad’s gifting of the rod spoke volumes to me, a corrective experience that jellied my heart for him.

My mam also tells me he expressed his emotions in his hug, holding on with a shaking shimmer, a sugar lump that made her giggle. She felt seen, loved and appreciated.

Yes I believe in being whammed by play, be it a jolly jerk, an underwater game, a rebellious reprieve on a roady bus ride.

I believe in love, I believe in boyishness, I believe in the serenely sweet surrender.