Bouncing

I'm putting these two photographs together because they are two separate but connected memories that I felt compelled to revisit and write about again:


I hold your hand.

You aren't sure about this. You don't like the sand clinging to your socks. It bothers your sense of order and rightness. And the mountainous heights of the bouncy pillow are intimidating. But you do want the fun, or the promise of it, and so you are quite determined as you reach for the brightly coloured fabric.

We climb up together. I have to haul you up the steep last part because you can't keep your balance. We don't bounce, as such. I tread carefully until you wobble a little and giggle, and then I run faster; chasing you and bouncing you until you shriek. Another little girl gets on. She is tentative like you but you are now the strong, experienced one and you let her find her feet on the bouncy pillow and then you become her big friendly bouncer and you both laugh and shout and tumble and stumble and pick each other up when you collapse, limbs knotted, flopping in helpless laughter.

The rhythm changes; the game changes. Somehow, you both instinctively know the rules without stating them. Whose turn to run, whose turn to chase, who is leading and who is following. Two perfect strangers enjoying the perfect bounce.

Eventually it must end: the bouncing as though your childhood depended on it.

“Goodbye,” you say, to your new buddy. “It was nice bouncing with you.”

She nods, solemnly. “You too. Bye bouncy friend.”

And you walk in different directions.

I help you put your shoes back on. You don't seem to mind the sand now. I marvel at the ease of a friendship between three-year-olds that only needs a shared passion for buoyancy.

We return regularly. It is a few years later. Now you have have progressed to the giant bouncy pillow and it is energetic and competitive. We still hold hands but only to see who is bouncing highest. You win. You weigh nothing, you walk on air anyway, and l...I am carry too many pounds and worried about my pelvic floor. Click. The mobile phone captures the moment. I frame it. On the wall and in my heart.

‘Nice bouncing with you,’ I say, all the time learning.






Currently reading: Five Rivers Met on a Wooded Plain by Barney Norris