Do you have the grey ticket, my seven-year-old grandson asks. He looks up into my eyes. Expectant. Earnest. I look down into his. The ceiling of the atrium in which we stand sits miles above us, cathedral-like. Space engulfs us. We form a tiny dot at the nexus of pool, rink, and library, me laden with bags of towels, swimsuits, and goggles, our eyes locked on one another’s. He waits for me to understand. It’s Sunday morning at the leisure centre, his swim lesson just finished, and now he and his sister and I will busy ourselves until it’s time for her swim lesson. The grey ticket, I repeat his words. Brow knit. Stumped. I think of things with tickets. Movies? Shoe repair? Parking? It matters not. I can see from his eyes that my answer has to be yes, I have to have a ticket, I can’t let those eyes down. You remember, he says knowingly, taking my hand and pulling me forward. The vending machines come into view. The grey ticket!, I blurt, The credit card. I understand. Yes, I say, I have the grey ticket, and I pull it out in a flourish and we set to work pushing buttons and releasing captive treats.
> I am them when I was a young child with my head in my mother’s lap. I am my mother with her grandchildren when she was my age. I am me as a mother when my kids were this age. We are the finger-whispered lineage of the back tickle.
Such a lovely story! There's something quite poignant about these images.
tickle lineage...what a gift that keeps on giving! love it!
What joy and sweetness, a grandmother's excess. Sneaky love.
Yes, lured with sweet and salty, the deal cemented with tickles. Brilliant!
> I am them when I was a young child with my head in my mother’s lap. I am my mother with her grandchildren when she was my age. I am me as a mother when my kids were this age. We are the finger-whispered lineage of the back tickle.
Love this.