I love him, I love his ideas, and gosh, I wish I could just jump in there sometimes and see it in full color. This must be how it is with children; they slow down enough once in a while to share a piece of the rolling film, but it’s only a shadow of the lively non-stop, action-packed thriller that is the mind of a six-year-old boy.
Mom, are there really angels guarding the Garden of Eden? Are treasures buried there? Would I be able to see the angels if I found the garden? I hope so, and I hope they would tell me where the treasures are buried.
Mom, am I a Jew? Because Jews are God’s people, and I’m God’s people.
A few days ago, he sat on the floor playing with an airplane “slingshot” toy as Grandma sang an old song that I remember her singing to me as a child. Well, she doesn’t really sing it to anyone, just an unconscious singing. Sitting small in the cushioned chair with pillow tucked behind her gray and her songs, she stared into yesterday:
Off we go into the wild blue yonder, climbing high into the sun. Here they come zooming to meet our thunder, at ’em boys, give ‘er the gun! Nothing can stop the Army Air Corps!
“I CAN!” shouted my little boy, aiming his airplane for a sure fire into the chair. And he was off, in the heat of battle, just him and Grandma’s song, conquering the skies.