I play like a kid.
While visiting Guyana to write about Fiona Payne, I played racing games and ran around outside with her sons, Jorrel and Jorryn.
Jorrel (left, being held) is especially competitive with his older brother, so one afternoon I decided to help bend the odds in his favor. Decked out in school uniforms, the boys lined up anxiously waiting side-by-side on our imaginary starting line.
I quickly stated the rules: Run down, pick up the flower directly in your path, turn around and cross the finish line, where I stood holding my hands out like flags in a drag race.
The boys were all giggles.
At the count of three I exclaimed, “Go!” But just as Jorryn stepped forward, I grabbed him in a bear hug for about three seconds while he laughed uncontrollably. Jorrel stopped and pointed while laughing hysterically because, thanks to “Auntie Amber,” he was winning the race.
Releasing Jorryn, I watched the brothers hustle down, pick up the flowers and tie the race by slapping my hands across the finish line.
We collapsed on the ground sputtering and giggling.
Continents may change, but kids’ games never do.
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