“Crocodile Tears”

The children don’t come here anymore. There was a time when they came in herds, beginning with an early-morning trickle of toddlers and swelling to a gang of climbing, running, jumping, crawling, carousing little critters. They shrieked and screamed in gleeful chorus. By midday, the birds would be outdone with their chatter.

The tiny ones, so sweet and trusting, barely out of the nursery, came, one by one, in the care of nannies or neighbours. Grandparents patrolled the pathways while a generation once-removed ran races up and down the green or clambered about on monkey bars. Sometimes, the pervasive, shining laughter was punctuated by a wail as one took a tumble or scraped a knee. Tiny hands ploughed the sand and built castles from paper cups. The walls were decorated with gravel.

I watched them from my usual spot, close but rarely involved. No one celebrates “being” quite like a child. No one embraces the unknown or welcomes the fantastic as freely as a child. They know nothing of fear; not really. They may be reserved, but in time, curiosity wins out and the adventurer steps up for inspection. What mischief they contrive! One cherub took to hiding in the cradle of my jaws; once he was found napping with my tongue as a pillow and after that, his sister knew immediately where to look if she lost track of him.

No one saw him disappear. One minute there, the next minute gone. No one saw anything untoward, no one noticed an out of the ordinary blip in their reality. He came to me when her back was turned. He patted my snout with his sticky hand and snuggled down between my teeth—and now no one comes to play.

I shouldn’t have swallowed.