TAGGED

He is eight years old. For some reason I don’t remember exactly how my son was when he was 8 years old (probably not the punk-rock character he is becoming). This little boy is a world to figure out.

He likes dinosaurs, he has a camouflaged bear, his most common sentences is: Just Kidding! He likes playing monopoly and, like my own son, likes zombies a lot. I see them wrestle, play, talk, i see them ignoring each other and at the same time enjoying each other. A world of their own where I do not exist.

Except a few days ago I became a part of his life. He was walking next to me and told me: TAGGED, and ran away laughing. It took me a little way to figure out what this tagged thing was about (right now if I hear tagged I think of facebook). Tagged, then, was what we call “las traes”. Yo las traía, I was tagged.

Crap.

I tagged him back.

A few hours later I was tagged again. I used my imagination and I created an invisible shield against tagging. It didn’t work, he had a bigger weapon.

Yesterday I tagged him before he left, I thought that he was going to tag me back, instead he gave me a kiss.

His kiss on my cheek tagged me for good. I was definitely tagged then.