Sticks

Sticks play a large part in most days.

Today is one such day.

The kids are schooling in a little patch of trees, each one grabbing a stick and becoming something fierce in the world. Jones’ stick must be at least six feet long, maybe more. The flush of delight on his face a kind of music. He leaps to the sidewalk like a creature from Dr. Seuss. He touches the tallest thing he can see. His imagination now alive in the physical world, his reach vast, he marvels at his powers. He is a T-Rex! A giant! He is Talos, the great warrior!

And then there is a puddle. It’s like finding a million dollar bill. It is the cure that washes all bad news away. IT IS THE BEST THING EVER. Jones jumps in with both feet, begins kicking the water like Gene Kelly. It is a song, for sure, and as we continue toward home he experiments with icicles and slush, closes every garbage can lid on the street.

And then he spots a plastic clip on the ground. He points it out, exclaiming that it looks like a J, like in his name. And then he sees an N on a license plate and points that out, too. “That’s an N, daddy, like in my name, too!” And then he points up at a tree, at a knot between its branches, “There’s an O,” he shouts! He is spelling his name from the world around him, and somehow the knowledge that he is alive in everything, still lingers within him.