Catch Me if You Can't

The air was soft and warm like Christmas Eve. There was no tree, nor were there any presents, ‘twas not the season. Yet, ‘tit felt like the season. A fire was ablaze in the fireplace (‘twould have been a different story altogether ‘twere it on the staircase). Lights ‘twere hung round the window panes and round the trunk of the potted palm in the corner of the room. There ‘twere no stockings hung from the mantle with care, but there ‘twas a stack of stockings, wet and muddy, piled carelessly by the washing machine in the back hall; the dog was giving them a sniff.

There ‘twere relatives about, gathered from all corners of the globe. They had all come to witness the burial of Grandpapa, a man who always made it feel like ‘twere Christmas. He wore reindeer sweaters in July. He put candy and dollar bills in the children’s shoes no matter the time of year; each of the grandchildren had placed a shoe outside their sleeping quarters in case Grandpapa magically appeared on this, the night before his burial.

Outside, it was late August, hot and humid, but inside the house still felt like Christmas Eve. Or, better yet, felt like Grandpapa: soft and warm. If you put your ear to the floor, you could hear the rumblings of seventeen grandchildren playing Grandpapa’s favorite game in the basement: Catch Me if You Can’t! In this hilarious game, Grandpapa was always it, because he never caught anyone. He would get so close, but never quite tag you and you would howl with delight at the wonderfulness of your daring escape. Tonight, they played as if Grandpapa ‘twere there, howling and squealing to keep his spirit alive!

written Monday, May 7, 2012 

This post is in memory of Ray Bradbury, the man who inspired me to write.