It became a part of their evening routine that year. He was two and she was five. There was no plan – no schedule – it just happened. One or the other would start the chase; he begging or she teasing, “i’m going to get you…I’m going to get you!”
The fun could start anywhere on the path that lay from his room at the end of the hall, through the hall, around the living and dining area, and back again – back and forth, around and around. He ran with head thrown back, giggles spewing, and legs chugging. She tempered her speed so he was just out of reach.
Their laughter was melody; their chase rhythm. Their routine mingled with mine in the kitchen: pots clanged, dishes clattered, silverware clinked, and water swooshed. But then, their ritual would draw me away into the joy of their normal day. Her hand would creep closer and closer until she caught his. Then they would dance the finale.