It’s finally happened. Your imagination has caught fire, and I’ve been drawn into your fantasy world on several occasions.
Granted, you’ve had an active imagination for a while. I still remember the first time you took a block and said it was a train.
But now you’ve taken it to the next level. It started a couple weeks ago. You wanted to get up on our bed, to play a game your mother taught you, of pretending the bed is a boat and the floor is water. I hoisted you up, and I asked if there were alligators in the water.
From that point on, your thoughts guided us. You found a baby alligator who became your friend. Soon you found two, one green, the other pink. You took the alligators with us and they kept us company for most of the rest of the day, and the mama and dada alligators were often lurking in the distance, but we held them at bay.
Years from now you might think I’m mocking you, so perhaps I should make clear that this was for me a joyous experience. I felt incredibly privileged to be caught up in your imaginings. And at the same time I felt a little sad, as I was reminded for some reason of our mortality, and mine especially, and the time we will have here together seemed suddenly far too short to me.