Play Is The Work Of Children

I never get tired of watching the little ones play.

I have a larger one, as tall as his mother now, almost. He’s lots of fun in a different way. But it’s the little one, not yet four, and all his compadres that capture my imagination. I literally watch him do nothing. I never get bored of him, ever.

He has a routine as fixed as any salaryman. There’s a pleasant frantic rhythm to it. You can still see the unaffected gears turning in his head as he goes from one activity to the next. Nothing much is hidden behind any sort of pretense. It’s like watching the raw clay for a human pot spin on the wheel, and you put your hands on it and the shape of his personality is made, or revealed.

He will be past it all very soon. He types his name and a few words now. How much longer can we hope for, before that marvelous transparent being is rendered opaque to us?