The light spring breeze caresses my face and ruffles loose strands of hair. I’m sitting next to the table where my mother and her friends are playing burako (a version of canasta played with tiles instead of cards) under the shady trees. The are really focused on the game and are very competitive too!
We are at the club where my siblings and I grew up playing tennis, field hockey or football; the same sports club my parents went to when they were dating and my grandfather played racquetball in the 60s and 70s and where now my nieces play tennis and field hockey too. Lots of history here. It’s like home.
As I sit facing the tennis courts, the smells of spring, the sounds of racquets pounding tennis balls pac pac pac, the birds bring back lots of memories. My gang of friends and I running around, my first crush, long summers by the pool, the ladies playing canasta exactly on this same spot under the trees.
My thirteen year old niece shows up with her BFF, hockey stick in hand.
And then it hits me: my mum is now part of the burako/canasta playing crowd and I was thirteen not long ago. Funny how life goes in cycles.