Dead mummy, dead mummy come alive
On the count of five!
One! Two! Three! Four! Five!
The hip game on the playground these days is “Dead Mummy.”
One kindergartener lies in the middle of the field. He is the dead mummy.
The other kindergarteners prance around the dead mummy, chanting the incantation, making it hard to rest in peace.
On the count of five, the dead mummy rises up, zombie-like, and chases his summoners with outstretched arms.
“I’m a dead mummy!” he roars.
Whoever is tagged falls down—the next dead mummy.
And so the game recommences, cycling through life and afterlife.
I do another lap of the playground and approach one of my favorite five-year-olds. Today she’s dressed head to toe in pink. Ten minutes ago she was a dead mummy, but now she mixes bark chips into a pool of water that’s collected at the bottom of a slide.
As she runs off in search of more ingredients, she looks to me and asks, “Can you guard the soup?”