Last year, the kids invented a game. They would crouch behind a half-deflated yoga ball while I tried to land a couple of mini-frisbees on top of their heads from across the room.
The boy calls it 妖怪 游戏 (Yāoguài Yóuxì).
Ghost Game. (More accurately translated “monster” game but we like the English alliteration).
The four-inch frisbees were cheap party favors. One was from Peter Piper Pizza, a birthday party at a pizzeria arcade with one of our first friends in Las Vegas; it’s translucent red with white printed texts. The other was from a birthday party at the skating rink with our daughter’s first friend in kindergarten; it’s black with an NHL logo.
Two plastic mementos from a life before the world was turned upside down. Beyond memories, they also represent the birthday parties that we’ve missed these past two years. Globally speaking a small loss, but it still stings a little.
Fortunately, the kids have grown up to give each other company. Like the sock and buskin, they constantly alternate between laughing and fighting. Time keeps pressing forward, with moments outside replaced by moments inside.
And occasionally, a red and black plastic disc will spontaneously create a strangely named game.
On a brighter note, our daughter just got her second shot the other day. Now it’s the boy’s turn, whenever it becomes available. It has been a long wait, but there is light at the end of this tunnel.