How can they

'How can they spend hours doing that.'

'That's so hard to see. Really sad.'

I glance to where the girls are looking.

Teenagers and little ones have made a narrow soccer goal out of rocks. Older guys are sitting on the hill, drinking beers and laughing.

The kids line up from a distance and try to shoot straight enough to get the ball through the goal. They're betting pennies.

They're playing.

And I can't think how many times my dad picked a spot. We picked three rocks. Hit the tree, hit the trashcan at the James river, hit that rock.

Golf on my uncle's ranch to the closest tree. See who can get a grape in someone's mouth first. Everybody plays.

Boogy boarding at the beach, my uncle, my dad, my sister. See who can float furthest in on the sand. No cheating. Catch the best wave. Sabotage, but don't get caught.

Throwing handfuls of jelly fish. Swim down and squeeze my ankle. Pretend you're something that bites.

My dad and his brother rough housing in the surf, the last to be called to come inside.

It's time for dinner.

Play a game of catch, if you make a bad throw you get a point, if you drop the ball, you get a point, drops is the name of the game, and HE is the sole arbiter. Points are bad.

'It's sad that they have nothing to play with'

I follow their gaze and see a couple of friends, sword fighting with a stick and a rolled up piece of cardboard.

I think about chasing dad around the house with a hairbrush and a whisk. I think about him running down the halls of the church ahead of me to hide and jump out. I think about being 26, and knowing from a mile away that he's hiding, and where he is.

I think about when Brie locked him in the closet when he hid in there and then we pretended not to know where he was.

I think about cops and robbers and slap fighting on a points system.

I think about camping and fishing and rock hopping and

All those head injuries.

making his daughters laugh when he got hurt.

I think about the man who taught me that joy is not material.