Resurrection in the park.

I tell Boy Son that they’re simply called “Trees” knowing that greater men have walked this path and reeled off names like Almus Hybrid and Snowdrop and Flatspine Prickly*. I bet they had excellent posture and puffed on pipes whilst quoting Kipling. The leaves however, they’re just leaves & I take comfort in knowing that any man who deviated from this easiest of descriptions must’ve been an absolute wibberwasher**.  We push on. The yelling and thrilling of molly coddled children plays softly in the foreground as my boots squelch to the rhythm of avoiding puddles. I’m the forgotten warrior of the park, the man whose DNA once punched out a Yak but I’ve boiled down to sipping lattes whilst side stepping my own reflection. My DNA’s latest resurrection is having none of this and decides to chant at the nameless trees, throwing dirt into their face before running around each one, three times apiece. I secretly hope this crowd gathering ritual will unlock a tree Genie who’s been waiting for this exact pattern to unfold. ‘Finally I’m free! Thank you little boy. I thought the spell was broken last week but the little fucker only ran around twice… Not to worry, I’m yours forever. Lets grab dad and head to India. I’ve got a score to settle. To the spices!’ I squinted my eyes and crossed my fingers, hoping against hope that the oncoming floppy eared fuzz ball was in fact Mr Tree Genie himself. This was stupid and I had to unpack my mind bags. India would have to wait. Embarrassingly the futility of my squinting was highlighted by the sound of steamed up piss falling on my pram. But oh how we all laughed… ‘The dog pissed on the man’s pram… the inappropriateness of it all, that’s what makes it so amusing. Wibber, wibber wibber.’ I shot them all with my mind vibes and they vaporised into the kind of dust that only gathers onto broken dreams. Suckers. I sipped my latte and pushed on.

Boy Son opened the gate and stood mesmerised as fragments of the future ran around shooting each other with sticks. I laughed at the realities of playground war; A twenty second ban if you’re wounded, thirty if you die, forty if you die near family. These rules played underneath a far more depressing conversation, ‘Darling not too close to the edge you might fall.’ My parents would introduce me to the weekend by firing me out of a cannon with half an apple and a slap on the arse yet still, I’m a pale reflection of a Yak Puncher. Today’s darlings are shot well before they can strap on their boots.

Up he climbed and down he slid for long enough so that I might be considered a decent father. It’s 12 parts love and adoration, 3 parts stifling boredom and 6 parts hiding the 3 parts. Today I did it well. Tomorrow I don’t know? He may want details.

*Derived solely from Google; may not be the trees in my park.

** Wibberwashers are jowly grown ups possessing no sense of humour and often they sound like overly serious washing machines.