Play

    I hardly remember that boy. I can only see a figure without a face or name. And the story itself-- I am so far from it-- that I'm wondering if it's truly mine... But it is...

    He came with his dad in our town from the capital city, probably during a break, or something. His dad-- a good friend of my father. Their visit was associated with an increase in my mother's collection of leather bound books that I used to touch with some reverence, and get excited about written words...

    I was very young, maybe first grade. I can say this because I have a memory of my empty room, with just a plain bed and a couple of boxes by the walls. I know that my parents furnished my room when I was in second grade.

    The boy was my age I would say. He had lost his mother and was taken care of by his father and an older sister. Although I knew his mother had passed I asked him about her just because I wanted to hear from him, how he felt. But he simply told me with some seriousness on his face that she had died, nothing more. So, I did not insist.

    Our dads were entertaining themselves in the kitchen, and we had to have some fun too. Apparently, we were forgotten for hours in the rest of the house. I have no idea now how we got to a strange play that involved his brown, full grain leather belt that he was wearing. He liked to tie up my hands with it, restricting their movement. Eventually he would release them and do the same thing with my feet as I was lying in bed. Then we would start again. A few days in a row. 

    I would resist a bit, I was confused, frustrated, but crazy enough, I felt some excitement as well, and eventually I would give in and let myself tied up with his belt. Our hands were touching repeatedly in a fidgety way and at one point I liked to play along. There was enough length to the belt to go around my wrists, two or three times maybe, and he was puffing, mumbling something, and working diligently. At times, he would straddle over by body so he would have a better control over his actions, or me.

    In the end, I was lying like that and stared at the empty room, while he was looking at his work. That's why I have a recollection of the unfurnished room with barren pinkish walls. One time, after I was well tied up--do not remember if it was either the hands or the feet--he kissed me on the cheek.

    "Mom, he tied me up and kissed me on the cheek," I told her as if something of great significance happened.

    Not sure what she said, but it was probably more like "Well...kids..." An answer for herself, rather, as she was moving in a haste to do something...

    Not too long after their visit, we received the news that the father of the boy died as well, and I never heard or saw anything after. I moved on with life as if nothing of him or the story ever existed...

                                                                                *

    As we journey through life we put things in boxes, and we carry them with us or not. Even if we carry them with us we may never take them out as we arrive to a destination. But it may come a time when we take out stuff that we did not touch in years, even decades. We take objects out, we shake off any possible debris, we curiously remove each layer of wrapping, and we are startled:  "Wow...where is this from... who gave it to me...?" And so on... And we try to find a place for it in case it has some relevance still...