the land of make believe

I cut a wedge of peach into tiny triangles & tossed them onto X's tray. I stuck my head in the fridge for a minute, hunting up some cottage cheese & blueberries to round out the meal & I returned to find X had turned one of the triangles up on it's end & was scooting it across the tray. "Boat!" he said, pointing excitedly, "Boat in wawa!" "Yes!" I responded with glee, "It does look like a boat floating on the water, doesn't it!?", amazed at his ability to make the somewhat vague connection between this bitty piece of triangular fruit & a sailing vessel. But it looks as though the door has opened to that great, wide world of his imagination and it is so thrilling to watch him walk right through with no inhibitions.

At Woodstock Park, he grabs my hand & drags me through the low doorway of the child's play fort. We sit together at the tiny table & I ask him what he would like to eat for dinner. "Geem beams," he answers, smiling his slobbery, toothy little grin, or "boobwees!" I motion like I am placing bits of food in front of him & he grasps imaginary handfuls & hoists them to his mouth while he pretends to chew & smack & relish his tasty treats. I led this routine the first time, but ever after he's been in charge. "Peepa!" (pizza) "Keez!" (cheese) You name it, we'll pretend to eat it together nearly every afternoon at the park. Often, other kids will join in & we'll host great feasts together, X & I. He loves watching the other kids enjoy their pretend dinners.

Of all my childhood, this it the thing I recall with the most nostalgia -the ability to lose myself so utterly in absolutely nothing at all. A bunch of wood chips really was a magnificent spaghetti dinner, a handful of bottle caps was loose change, a big hole in the arbor vitae was a place of my own worth living in, if only I could convince my mom to let me sleep out there. Even still when I watch children engage in this kind of play I get a great pang of longing for that feeling of complete freedom that comes from a secret knowing (children have it, grownups lose it) that reality has only those restrictions that you place upon it. If you are able to fashion working wings from the old, brown, eyelet curtains from the upstairs bathroom you may be able to fly. Just maybe. And if you can't actually fly, pretending you can feels almost as good. And when I dwell in these memories my stomach turns a little, like it would if I were really airborne.