There is a trio of distinct people that has come up the street (quite suddenly) and burst into a family right outside the doorway of my shop. The father thought he would hide from his two children and they, who are still small and full of air and joy, fly after him and into him, ecstatic with the game, outraged with his hiding place which is far too easy.
They exclaim on the poverty of his choice.
You never find a good place!
And their father, who is also young, raises both hands in the air, cannot defend himself does not even try because he is weighed down and drooping with adoration for the pair of them, brother and sister, one with undone clicking shoelaces and the other with one tooth missing and all three of them lean over caught in mirth and liking each other quite immensely, I thought.
Briefly they glance in the window and they see Hairy Maclary, the book itself leaning into the joy and the girl shouts it’s Hairy Maclary and their father shouts, not to be outdone: you’re Hairy Maclary, and then they all of them, breathe at the cleverness and move on, father and son running, but the little girl, well, she dances.
The boy, as they leave, is chanting a horse race at great speed and with peppered clarity and his sister obeys into a whooping gallop of her choice and the father shouts as they move away and down the footpath: who is winning, who is winning… and then they are faint in the distance and the cold, and it seems to me that the day itself pauses thoughtfully and must record this brief, outrageous triumph.
Sculpture by Malgorzata Chodakowska
The Kleine Ballerina