Water would always run down the sides of my mouth after hastily drinking a cold cup of water, exhausted from all the running. We would always makes sure no nieghbors door was missed, in excitement they would join us for a game of kick the can. When we had our tribe prepared to play, I would make an attempt at exclaiming the game, but usually was quickly drowned out from their laughing and chatting. After begging and getting my dad to be the seeker, he would start counting down and we would all run in different directions, hoping to learn by imitation. The only thing you could hear was the loud ribbits of the frogs, and occasionally a giggle from a hiding spot. Even now after years of practice at the game, I often find myself amazed at the places some people find to hide, or resort to hiding in.
“Tap tap on Charlotte” my dad would yell from across the yard, and usually devistated my bestfreind was out, I would take on the mission to kick the can like a detective takes on a murder mystery. Walking on the gravel was like dropping a pin in a silent room, although now I can say I have mastered the art. I see almost everyone is out, and I now know I can’t take any risks. After many times of me mistaking a cars headlights for the blinding light of my dads flashlight I would finally run for the can when he was oblivous. The deafening sound of the can full of rocks being kicked occured and everyone would cheer and run to restart the game. I’m sure our neighbors loved us. Without a worry about social distancing or covid we would most likely all plop on the hammock after exhausting our energy. We’ve obviously gone through this ritual enough times to snap the chain of the hammock once or twice… or more.
I often wish I could find as much joy in the game as I did then, although reminiscing in the memories is enough. When showing up at someones door was standard, its now been taken over by the art of texting and snapchatting, which is quite less thrilling to be frank. I’v found joy in many new things, but the nostalgia of certain things is rarely surpassed.
“Tap tap on Charlotte” my dad would yell from across the yard, and usually devistated my bestfreind was out, I would take on the mission to kick the can like a detective takes on a murder mystery. Walking on the gravel was like dropping a pin in a silent room, although now I can say I have mastered the art. I see almost everyone is out, and I now know I can’t take any risks. After many times of me mistaking a cars headlights for the blinding light of my dads flashlight I would finally run for the can when he was oblivous. The deafening sound of the can full of rocks being kicked occured and everyone would cheer and run to restart the game. I’m sure our neighbors loved us. Without a worry about social distancing or covid we would most likely all plop on the hammock after exhausting our energy. We’ve obviously gone through this ritual enough times to snap the chain of the hammock once or twice… or more.
I often wish I could find as much joy in the game as I did then, although reminiscing in the memories is enough. When showing up at someones door was standard, its now been taken over by the art of texting and snapchatting, which is quite less thrilling to be frank. I’v found joy in many new things, but the nostalgia of certain things is rarely surpassed.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.