If I don’t expect it, playful will return. It will slink through the back door, throw its coat on the back of a chair, pick up an empty coffee cup, pretend to drink. Look at me with a ‘what?’ expression as I turn the corner, eyebrows up, Jimmy Dean.
I will fight the urge to hug and cheer. Instead I will do the chin jut ‘sup’ that I’ve never previously managed and ask it if it wants to do a jigsaw.
It definitely will want to do a jigsaw.
Then we will try on jewellery in a shop or overdo our makeup and walk up and down a quiet street, just imagining the looks. We’ll water-ski, power knit, stretch in sunshine on beaches. We’ll throw flour at each other like people do in films when they’re happy. We’ll crick our necks just looking up, remember laughter, forget that we forgot. I’ll forget that I forgot. Playful doesn’t.
I mustn’t be Whistler’s Mother. I won’t even leave the door open, just unlocked. Playful, for me, will arrive when it’s least expected.
Stef Is Writing 