Play

play.jpg

One particular memory from my childhood has been present lately.

Dad. Play with me.

No. Men don’t play. Play with your mother.

Why would I lower myself to the floor and pretend the figures talk, He said ridiculing me.

Men don’t play. Words that resonated with me growing up.

I grew up fast, therefore I stopped playing fast.

I forgot how to play, and what that meant.

It sounded like a foreign word to me. I never spoke the words, I want to play.

Other kids would say, you wanna play?

Play? Go play with other kids. I don’t play.

Why do they play? What’s the point? So childish, I thought, even though I was still a child.

Then, my son was born, and I watched him play.

I watched as figurines took life and in his imagination and build stories.

He pretended and played out whatever he thought up. Unconditionally happy.

Voices, characters, make-believe, or based on what he watches, came to life without a care of who watched.

Every day, without worry, and delay, furniture became landscape and tile an untouchable surface.

Plastic became an airplane and his mouth a sound effects box. Why? What purpose?

Dad? He said. Play with me.

Men don’t play, son. Instead, I just watched him and felt embarrassed.

Slowly, playtime receded into the internet and others far away took on the role of play companions.

Now. I see grey hair in the mirror. He’s as tall as me, and he has procreated, all in the blink of an eye.

One day, this will repeat. I cannot undo it. The cycle will continue.

I think back, and my heart beats with both anger and sadness.

I dream of my son, four years old, pitter-patter in pajamas with that weekend laughter, and me on the floor.

We make shooting sounds and laugh about everything. I wish it with all my tears.

I’m a robber and he’s a cop, and within a brief moment, the world around us stops existing. Nobody watches.

The only thing that matters at that time is our pretend world and the moment when he learns to trust me.

He makes eye contact and looks inside of me, smiles, and says nothing, but I know that it’s unconditional love.

My dad never played with me and I taught it to my son, and in the hospital bed, I wish with all my heart I could take it all back.

He’s not here. I wish he would come and play with me, but he is a man, and men don’t play.

🍺 mrrobinhood5

Mar 21 · 2 months ago · 👍 corscada, decant, olav · 🙁 1

4 Comments ↓

😎 decant · Mar 22 at 07:34:

That's some heavy stuff dude, you are really good at it. Wish you would write some grimdark sifi/post apoc shorts.

🚀 ibannieto · Mar 23 at 22:21:

Keep playing games dude 😘

🚀 blah_blah_blah · Mar 25 at 13:24:

Hard pass. Men can talk to and play with their sons. Case closed. If you have a personal problem, solve it.

🍺 mrrobinhood5 [OP] · Mar 26 at 01:38:

@blah_blah_blah its not a blog, its a fiction short story. the main character regrets his decisions on his deathbed, but its too late.