Stiff Olympians

Friday, November 03, 2006

The rain is falling outside and the sound of the drops hitting the sodden leaves is all I hear. Joshua is sound asleep and the house is still.

I was curled up on the couch with my warm green afghan, a cup of Earl Gray tea, a buttered muffin, and Kenneth Grahame's The Golden Age. It's one of those books that makes me want to run across a wide field just to feel the wind in my hair; or go traipsing through a woody valley in search of fairies or wood elves. It makes me want to see the world through the innocent eyes of a child, when animals are not dead but only sleeping on the side of the road and waffles take a new shape every time you take another bite.

But time marches on and I have attained those grown-up years that used to seem so distant. I can only hope that when Joshua comes to me bubbling over with excitement about slaying his imaginary dragons I won't brush him off and scorn his childish fantasies. May he never see me as a stiff and colorless Olympian, who's existence is void of interest, with movements confined and slow, and who's habits are stereotyped and senseless.

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