I spent two days in Kansas playing with my cousin’s kid, Eric. He’s a beefy 3-year-old, replete with the missing front tooth and bowl cut. When he runs, which is frequent, even when just going down the hall to brush his teeth or wash his face upon a maternal command, he uses only the balls of his feet, like a dancer up on tip-toes.
We did everything together. Made peanut butter, jelly, and cheese sandwiches. Tied shoes. Rinsed dishes, him up on a stool to reach over the sink. Fought dragons. Tamed dragons. Sent imaginary dragons off to do our bidding. Wrestled. Touched the ceiling, him balancing on my shoulders. Played Wii – poorly. Wrestled more.
Whenever I said something Eric didn’t understand, he would look at me for a second, then break into high-pitched and hysterical laughter – a kind of powerful forced laughter which overwhelmed the awkwardness and eased the moments forward by wiping away the past few seconds. Then he would usually grab my shirt and try to pull me down the ground.
In a movie, this song would be the soundtrack to the slow-motion scene of Eric jumping on the trampoline. It would start at the normal speed, but soon slow way down mid-jump. Each arm flail, every bead of sweat on his head, that infectious grin – it would all become majestic and eloquent on the flickering screen with this song’s bass pumping through it. It would be poetry.
And then the song would end, Eric would fall to the trampoline again. And probably jump off and tackle me.
Ahhh I love it.
DOPE.