It Does Not Follow

Sometimes, when I wake Ian in the mornings, he’ll greet me with ‘It’s a sunny day?’ or ‘I’m done with my nap?’ or ‘Good morning!’. Very rarely he’ll smile and exclaim, ‘I love you!’, which is how all fathers should be greeted.

More often, though, Ian will begin his day with an enigmatic non-sequitur, as if we were in the middle of a conversation.

‘But the bugs can’t get out, Daddy.’

‘Monsters need to play,’ and he shrugs at its finality.

Yesterday he rubbed his eyes and said, ‘The dinosaur is fun!’

I lifted Ian from his bed. ‘What dinosaur, kiddo?’

‘A big dinosaur! He played with me!’

‘Neat! Was this a dream?’

‘Yeah! I dreamed, and the dinosaur played with me!’ Very exciting.

‘What was his name?’

‘Max.’

‘Yeah? What color was he?’

‘Black! And he had to live in a cave.’ Ian loves things living in caves, probably because many of Grammie’s stories involve things living in caves. Or so he thinks.

Max also had pictures drawn on his walls, and liked to snuggle.

This dream was so vivid, so exciting, so riveting, that Ian had to tell Kelly. And Grammie and Grandpa. And the church choir members. And his Sunday School teacher. And anyone who caught his eye. Again. And again. And again. And again.

Imagination is a wonderful, if persistent, thing.

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