Invisible

The littlest one comes up to me with a big smile. He must be less than a year and half. I don't think he is speaking yet. But he recalls the friendship we formed last time all of us gathered here.

The four year old is carrying two books in her hand. She should not be able to read yet, certainly not full stories. The ones without any pictures. She says she started reading at two. Who am I to challenge her.

She remembers how I played hide and seek with my granddaughter and her when I was at the park a few weeks back. And that is all she wants to do now.

And so I count to 20, my eyes half closed, as the two girls scamper behind the nearest tree. For the next 5 minutes, I will embark on a fruitless undertaking to find them. Even when I stare in their direction, I am powerless to discover their whereabouts. As though they are invisible. Then it is my turn to hide. They find me before they even finish counting.

There is a pack of about six or so tiny people who gather most afternoons in this park. The adults sitting together off to the side, happy for the opportunity to converse with someone, anyone, more their own age, comfortable that their combined set of eyes is enough to ward off the worst moments for the ones running hither and yon.

When I occasionally join this entourage I wonder if I am more problem than solution. My skill set not at toning down but revving up the kids who find me amusing.

But what is better than having that tiny child look up at me and with his eyes tell me I am OK. 

I fear I have been both cursed and blessed to be young of heart and head. For those watching my antics, there is most certainly a combination of amusement and head shaking, I believe the term they feel most appropriately defines me is wildly immature.

All I know is my most fervent wish when I next join this group is, maybe just once, when I hide, I too can become invisible.