This August afternoon

I sit here at the dining table in the mellowing heat of the late afternoon, windows wide open, hoping the wind will pay us a visit and break the heaviness of humidity in the air. My fingers follow a practised dance across the keys of the laptop that I have grown to love so much. It makes me smile now to think how reluctantly I accepted this laptop as a gift two Augusts ago, but how it is now my trusted companion at various points during my day; my link to you on the other side of the world. On the screen, I play with dates, places and possibilities ... allowing myself to hope a little, dream a little.

Through the open window I see the blue expanse of the sky. Cloudless and bright. A bat flies across that blue and lands on the fronds of the coconut tree, just a few feet away from where I sit. It hangs upside down, its wings like a shawl wrapped tightly around itself; its large glassy eyes seemingly stare back at me. Then, in a series of quick acrobatic movements, it makes its way to the ripening fruit and unashamedly steals in broad daylight. The cheek!

The door to the children's room is half open. Below the colourful wooden letters that spell their names on the door, a new sign has been scrawled on a sheet of paper and attached with scotch tape. It reads: "No grownups allowed without knocking or wiping their feet." A foam alphabet puzzle board is placed on the floor, at the entrance - a mat for the grownups in question to wipe their feet, I presume.

The giggles and excited chatter coming from inside the room warms my heart. I listen to them play house.

"James, will you go to the market and buy some fish, please?"

"Okay Natalie, right away!"

As "James," wearing a jumble of clothes from the dress-up box, including swimming gear, an oversized shirt, a hat and a feather boa, gets into his bright red and blue car and drives to the market (the couch in the living room which has many toy fish arranged on the seat), there is a loud cacophony of honking from the street below. I glance down. A truck trying to make a U turn in the middle of the street has caused a slight commotion and angry drivers make their frustration known - and heard.

Across the street, in the apartment block at two o'clock from where I sit, I see residents gather on their balconies, peering down to see the hullabaloo of the late afternoon traffic.

A strong waft of perfume turns my attention back to the goings-on inside the house. "Natalie" has transformed herself into a fairy of some kind, red glittery wings flapping under her arms as she flies around the living room.

"I am going to a tea party, so I used some perfume," she beams at me, when I look at her questioningly and sniff the air. By "some," I think she means half the bottle.

When I ask her where the tea party is to be held, she tells me that it is at the bottom of the woods, with all the elves and the fairies... and Spiderman. Of course.

What a wonderful thing, to have the imagination of a child. To let yourself be transformed into anything and be anywhere, without a care in the world.

I turn to the screen on my computer again. To the markings that sketch my plans. So many questions. So many ifs and buts. But for now, for this moment, I allow myself to ignore the questions and turn away from the doubts. I let myself dream.