Soramimi Hanarejima
Second Chances for First Times
When we finally manage to meet for weekend brunch, you tell me there are two things in particular that you’re excited to do during your second childhood: climb trees and swim in lakes—activities that weren’t possible in the cityscape of your first childhood.
“I made sure my second childhood would start in July so I can do these things,” you say from across plates of pancakes and fruit.
“That’s practically around the corner now,” I reply, a little jealous. “My second childhood isn’t until next October.”
“Too bad our second childhoods won’t overlap. It would be fun to play together.”
“Yeah, but we can still play together. Come over during your second childhood, and we’ll play a board game or hide and seek or whatever you want.”
“OK. But wouldn’t it be fun if we were children again at the same time? Maybe we could play together during our third childhoods.”
“I’m sure we can get those to coincide. We’ve got a whole decade to figure out the dates. We should be able to arrange at least a week of overlap.”
“Definitely.”
With work being what it is, I don’t see you again until you’re well into your second childhood, when you come over to play. I almost expect you to be a little kid when I open the door, but aside from the cargo shorts and baggy t-shirt, it’s of course you as usual. Childhood is at its core a psychological state.
“Did you climb some nice trees and swim in a lake or two?” I ask once you’re inside.
“Not yet,” you answer.
“So what have you been doing?”
“Playing video games.”
“Isn’t that what you did during your first childhood?”
“Yeah, but these new holographic games are so amazing.”
“Well, we could go swimming now,” I offer, hoping you won’t suggest we climb trees instead.
“Nah, let’s play house.”
For the rest of the afternoon, we pretend that my apartment is a suburban home we live in with our three children. One of them is having a birthday party, so you tell me to bake a cake while you decorate.
The next time you come over, you still haven’t climbed a single tree or gone swimming once.
“Why don’t I take you swimming then,” I offer.
“But I brought over this new video game.”
You hold up a game cartridge, the kind that will stream data our smartglasses.
“You can play that any time. Let’s go to Sunset Lake while the weather’s nice,” I say.
“But the two-player mode is supposed to be really good.”
“OK, then we’ll play it after we get back.”
That settles the matter, and we’re off.
The drive passes quickly as we tell each other jokes and riddles.
At the lake, we put on our bathing suits in the changing area then cross the sandy shore and wade into the water. When we’re knee deep, you complain about it being too cold.
“You’ll get used to it,” I assure you. “Just start swimming.”
Before you can object, I take my own advice to show you how it’s done. I plunge myself below the surface then launch into a vigorous sidestroke. Once I’ve gotten a fair ways out, I look back, hoping you’ve followed my lead. But there’s no sign of you in the water or on the shore. I assume that you’ve gone back to the car to get the game cartridge and your smartglasses.
Then I notice tree branches shaking over by where the lakeshore meets the woods, and there you are among all the leaves, working your way up. At least you’re doing one of the two things you wanted to—and one of us gets to do some swimming. Which I might as well enjoy. So I get back to it, taking my time to sidestroke further into the calm expanse of water.
When I look back at the shore from the middle of the lake, there’s an ambulance parked by the roadside and a small crowd gathered by the tree you were climbing. I swim furiously back to the shore.
“So much for swimming in lakes this summer,” you say as we leave the emergency room.
You’re in an oddly good mood considering your left arm will be in a cast for the rest of the season. Maybe you’re grateful that you weren’t more seriously injured.
“You can be the first to sign my cast,” you say cheerily.
“Oh, I’d be glad to,” I answer, my tone far from matching your enthusiasm.
“Just don’t write too big. I’m going to ask everyone I know to sign this. But you can draw a little picture with your name, if you want.”
“OK, got it. Small signature with a little picture.”
I’ve never seen anyone so happy about having a cast. Then I remember that you’ve never broken a single bone, until now.
“We can still play that game,” you say. “Even with the cast, I can do all the gestures.”
“OK,” I agree, even though it’s gotten late after all the waiting and x-rays and bone setting and plaster wrapping.
The sky is purple with twilight, and the parking lot lights are on, but how can I say no after what you’ve been through? If you asked me to, I’d join you in playing video games every day for the rest of your second childhood. And now you have an excuse to do just that.
But there are still some outdoorsy summer things we can do in what’s left of your second childhood, like go to the sunflower maze. And there will be other chances to go swimming. Maybe you can go skinny-dipping one night during your second adolescence—and I’ll go with you. I never got to do that during my first adolescence or since.
Ever yearning to be spellbound by ideas of a certain fanciful persuasion, Soramimi Hanarejima often meanders into the euphoric trance of lyrical daydreams, some of which are chronicled in Soramimi’s neuropunk story collection, Literary Devices for Coping.
