Sunday. Cozy evening. My son and I are both curled up on the couch reading our books. Well, reading his books, because I am in the middle of “Ghost Camp” from the Goosebumps series he so graciously let me borrow. Suddenly my son jump from the couch, performs a series of weird actions such as holding his breath, spinning, rubbing his tummy and yelling out “1,999”. I pick up his book, read the page it was left open on and sure enough come across a verse containing detailed instructions on how to get back to the past. And my almost-seven-year-old boy believes that after he performs all the crazy steps he will travel back in time. He, who just recently told me that dragons don’t exist. I play along. I say let’s do it over step-by-step… now, hold your breath till you turn blue, spin around fast… He complies with diligence and looks rather disappointed when he is still there in the middle of our living room, things unchanged, year 2010. “Mom, maybe it’s because I didn’t turn blue when holding my breath?”
I smile about it all morning today sitting at work. I am glad childhood found me again through my son. I am happy to retrieve long forgotten experiences and beliefs. Believing in miracles against all odds. I think last night for a brief magic moment I almost expected that the incantation will be followed by … something? Do we really want to be adults all the time? Or are there are occasional moments of doubt and hope that there’s some truth to the most absurd of phantasies? If something is so real in your mind, it doesn’t need to be real in the outside world, it isalready granted some sort of existence by the power of your imagination.
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