Thursday, June 11, 2009
Last night, I squeezed into Harry's fire truck bed to read him a story. The room was hot because our house gets stuffy between 5 and 7 every night no matter what the temperature is outside. I didn't pull up his covers because his cheeks were already a little flushed, and he looked warm.
"Mama," he said. "Why didn't you put the rainbows on me?"
I looked at him blankly for a second. "The rainbows," I asked. "Oh! You mean your blankets?"
"Yes," he said quickly. "My blankets."
I obliged, pulling up his red blanket, his yellow quilt, and the blue fleece he's had since he was a baby. His rainbows. I love this, that he has a private word for his blankets, that his word is such an apt description, that he's never shared this word before, that it tumbled out in a moment of sleepy confusion, and especially that he wanted it back as soon as he said it, tucked back in his little head with a kaleidoscope of private observations whose existence I never contemplated.
He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who keeps anything to himself, but now I can't stop wondering how else he sees the world, what else he shares with no one.
When I left his room, I told him I hoped his rainbows kept him cozy.
"Mama," he said. "I think you should call them my blankets."