When buffing the polish on my good shoes this morning, I had no inclination of the battle that awaited me. But as the afternoon gives way to evening, I see the young soldier preparing for war. He does not see me. Through the gaps of the curtains of his home I watch him preparing the weapons of warfare, knowing they are meant for me. Dozens of water balloons are filled and carefully placed in a tote. Pawpaw is going to get wet.
I give no thought to my good shoes and the equally valued shirt and pants because soldiers don’t always get to choose the time and place of the conflict. Against conventional judgement, I run toward the fight. The eight-year-old adversary has distributed multicolored balloons across the bed of the trampoline and has the advantage of it protective walls for cover. The war is swift and decisive. Although ammunition is shared, he gets in a few too many good shots and then finishes me off with a water cannon that I am asked to provide.
Despite the conflict, both the young and much older boy have a great time, as the fog of war is punctuated with laughter. They form an alliance as summoned to the “mess hall” for mealtime. One gets tacos. The other a grilled cheese. Pokémon cards make up the after dinner banter as the collection is shared and narrated.
Within a half hour, the older combatant polishes the same shoes again while Facetime documents that the young one has lost a subsequent battle and gets punished by a bath. Seems that even fierce combatants lose to their moms.
The clean shoes and clean boy are place back where they started the day.
The Pawpaw looks down at the shiny shoes and thinks how glad he is that he stopped and smelled the roses. And the roses of this day had the unmistakable smell of water balloons.