Dressed. Cowboy vest. Pirate pants. Cowboy boots. Pirate hat. Earring. No shirt as the pirate coordinating top was too small for you. Assuredly, you told me, "Mom, pirates go without shirts sometimes. They are rough people and could care less how they look."
And, quickly I responded, "E, you look like a great pirate." My sewing continued as I heard you trample-plod down the stairs and out to find your mate. My eagerness to drop all fabric and flee to your vagabond side was so very hard to resist. I made my way to my studio window to peek a bit more at your Jack Sparrow ways.
You laid belly down on the driveway and drew. A pirate map with colors, cross bones, skulls, and buried treasure too. "X" marks the spot was there as well. You were quietly intense. Unaware of the pressed pavement particles tattooing your tummy or of little brother right beside you completing his wardrobe details.
There was fluid talk and furrowed brows between the two of you. Discussions of the best route to set sail in search of gold were heated. After a few hundred rounds of hems and haws and hmphs and not fairs, your journey began.
Your ship. An old moving box. Your ocean. Our front yard. Acutely aware of your nautical course, you heaved from all that you had within. Rocky waves, unchartered waters and heavy cargo were getting the best of you.
So, you called "All Hands on Deck" to all
little brothers who were hoping for a free ride crew members.
With the sounds of my embroidery machine humming, I could take not one more second of an upstair's view. I bounded down the stairs bare footed in a tip-toe run-like sort of fashion. My energies so enticed by your journey; I snuck around the side of the house to see more.
With a lighter load for sailing, your boat glided much easier through the waters. Yet, in true eldest child form, you still seemed to be the one guiding the nautical wheel.
Your mama's heart was wrapped in giddy as I squatted secretly in the front row of this performance. Your pretending taking precedence over all that be. Your unabashed innocence was a robust reminder of the power of play.
Ships ahoy! Your anchor scraped muddy grass bottom and intricate talks commenced. Intense plans with grand schemes in hopes of shiny findings.
Upon making my way back up the staircase of adult responsibility to my studio, my eyes caught a faint glimpse of an oddity there in the staircase corner. Moving closer for visual clarity, I found a collection it seemed. As my eyes glanced up the next few stairs, there were more on this shiny trinket trail.
Stolen gold buttons left behind from my button collection were sparsely scattered among the steps from my studio.
Little brother knew just the source for "real gold" you see.
the power of play
my buried treasure