Chair

When I was a child, we played all kinds of games. We spent a lot of time outside, so many of them were meant to be played in large open spaces, and very often they involved lots of people.

I loved it that way.

The more people, the merrier.

One of my favourite games was musical chairs. It was also a special one because you needed actual chairs and something to play the music on, which was quite a luxury back then. It usually meant a special occasion—a birthday party or some other celebration. And somehow, in my memory, it is always a sunny summer day.

It was also one of those games that required the cooperation of adults, who were often too busy, too tired, or simply too occupied with the grown-up world.

I understood that. Even as a child, I knew that adulthood came with responsibilities that made people serious, tense, and constantly preoccupied.

But I wanted them to come down to my world.

At least for a little while.

To play with me.

To smile.

To laugh.

It was a real treat when everything came together and we could actually play. The memory of those moments, and even more their aftertaste, stayed with me long afterwards.

Winning was never important to me. In fact, I was always a terrible player.

What mattered was the atmosphere.

The shared excitement.

The laughter.

Running together.

Being part of something joyful.

Those moments felt like drinking the ambrosia of life. I stored them somewhere deep inside myself, where they quietly healed the little scratches and bruises that childhood inevitably brings. That inner warmth kept my whole system running smoothly and cheerfully for quite some time afterwards.

The game—or perhaps the warmth that surrounded it—still lives in me, and I always smile when I think about it.

Now that I am the adult, I try to be an available one. Whenever I have the chance, I play with children.

I know I look clumsy and probably a little ridiculous. Other adults have kindly pointed that out to me more than once.

I couldn't care less.

I still enjoy the game immensely every single time.

And I like to think that, in those moments, the little girl inside me is speaking to today's children in a language they understand.