The Sandbox

Remembering how to play

Tom was never very good at playing with the other kids. His mother had died before he could remember, and his father made him work before and after school. This priority for work carried through into his character and made him altogether unpleasant as a playmate. In fact, he did not really understand play at all and would boss the other children around.

One day at recess, Tom decided he would try his hand at the sandbox. He had already tried tag, the playground, jumping rope, hopscotch and all the other games. But he was bad at all of them and quite critical of other kids who did not follow the rules. He hoped the sandbox would offer better luck because it involved building.

When he got to the sandbox, there were already other kids playing. They were digging holes, drawing shapes, and throwing sand. Tom was displeased with the chaos and immediately, while standing just outside of the sandbox, began giving orders to build a castle. For all his bossing there was not much listening and after ignoring him for several minutes one of the girls spoke up.

“If you want to build a castle, why don’t you come in here and build one?”

In general, Tom disliked girls and found them to be bothersome. This one had her back to him, and he could not see her face, but something about her voice intrigued him. He stepped over the wooden boundary and into the sun-warmed sand.

The moment his second foot hit the sand, he felt his stomach jolt. He was falling. The sand under him had changed, first into quicksand, then into air. He had enough time to look up and see a circle of light far overhead. Then he looked below and saw only darkness. Half a second later he splashed into water. The water was deep and he had not touched the bottom when he fell into it. He was in a narrow well.

He tried climbing the walls for hours but the stones were slick. His hands were bleeding and he was tired. A single rock protruded at the water line and gave Tom a place to sit. Defeated, he stared into the void that was the black water. Defeat turned to sadness, sadness to boredom, and boredom to drowsiness. Staring at the water, Tom’s head nodded. Stillness turned to ripples, and ripples turned to lights and texture.

Tom found himself standing in a ballroom. Dancing was a sin according to Tom’s father, and he felt quite awkward standing there, especially in his oversized body with a well kept beard. He stood there watching the twirling multitude for some time before he felt a warm hand grab his wrist. Pulled into the crowd, Tom now found himself in the hands of a woman. While he had not danced before, he knew that as a man he was supposed to lead, yet he felt helpless. He was saved by the elegance of the lady, who seemed to move out of his way each time he was about to step on her foot.

Just as he began to grow comfortable the music changed and he was thrust forward from one partner to the next, and the dance began again. This happened several times until Tom was tired and found a moment to sit, the blur of what felt like hours replaying in his memory. Faces of the several ladies faded and blended into each other. Out of the blur walked a woman he had not yet danced with. She had a distinct and familiar face, with grace surpassing that of Tom’s previous partners.

“Care for a last dance?”

Speechless, Tom took her hand, even warmer and more tender than that which first grabbed him. He walked ahead of her (although she led him) into the throng. They danced the same steps Tom had learned, and her eyes pierced his as the pace of the song picked up. At the height of energy, he spun her round and her hair whipped by. At this point Tom had learned there was a single spin, but the lady continued to spin again and again. The edge of her dress, like her hair, lifted outwards and formed a cone. As she turned, her appearance changed. The conical dress became a mountain and her flowing hair a crown of clouds. Even the music was transformed into a voice so loving it could only be his dead mother.

“Go on, Isaac.”

Tom was standing at the foot of that mountain, and it began to rain. Of course, he knew, the quest was to reach the peak. Tom ran up the muddy slope, following a winding path . Slipping and sliding he laughed, his thoughts alternating between his mothers voice and the joy of the ballroom dance. At the moment he stepped into the cloud at the peak, it all vanished.

Tom was once again in the damp and dark well. It was no longer cold, but warm. Tears were streaming down Tom’s face, and he was floating in his own brine at the top of the well. He thought once more of his mothers voice before the waters carried him up and out, and back into the sandbox.

For a brief moment Tom lost consciousness. When he regained awareness, he found himself already building a castle with the nice girl. He asked her name and she looked up with the same piercing eyes of his last dancing partner.

“Anna. What is yours?”

“Isaac,” he said with a smile.