Here I am, writing yet again in a distracted funk, while the Impling pretends to float and fly and kick in the waters of imagination as a floppy purple frog named Alice.
Or, it might just be a real frog. The first frog.
Today, we went to Griggs Park.
And there, in the spring smelling air, surrounded by stray sand from the box, and toddler gymnasiums, the Impling had an experience.
"I want to go to Griggs park and catch my own frogs...with this dish!" she declares now, holding up her black cauldron (initially purchased for use as a Halloween candy repository) but now premoted to "Frog catcher". Appropriate, don't you think?
Yes, we are writing this together.
So there we were, eating, (and not eating) our lunch on a wooden bench beneath the pine cone shedding trees, when a boy approaches.
He is a little older than the Impling, but not by much. He has a broad wonderful grin, a wonderful laugh, and a cookie bin. A Trader Joe's cookie bin. Without the cookies, but with something infinateley better inside.
Two, hoppy, green and brown spotted...
"what were they?" the Impling looks up at me with sparkling eyes:
"FROGS!!!" she cries. Now melancholy is in her face.
"I miss the frogs. I want to see the frogs. Froooggggssss!"
Yes. Two frogs.
"I want to catch one of my own!" says the Impling as she looks over my arms and fingers as they type type type away, and then I get a kiss and a huge grin.
Have I mentioned I LOVE hanging out with my Impling. I can even write with her.
"I can even frog." adds the Impling.
Anyhow. There were frogs. In the cookie bin. And the Impling thought this was the BEST THING EVER.
Time stopped. The Impling and the boy looked at the frogs, watched them climb, and jump and crawl and try to get away. The boy lifted one little frog, gently gently, and placed it into the Impling's open hand.
"How did it feel, Impling?"
"It felt good. Impling hugged the frog!" The Impling blows out her cheeks like little vocal sacs and places her palms over them.
"Frog" she says. "I want to go to Griggs Park and find frogs! FROOOGS!" she declares.
"Let's wrap this up" says the Impling.
I have only one thing to add. Language. Overrated. The little boy and the Impling said not one word to one another. They shared, they watched ,they laughed and played. But even if they had wanted to communicate in something other than the innately wonderful language they already had, it would have been impossible.
Because the boy spoke only Russian.
The Impling, her own version of the English language.
And yet, they are friends.
Smile from the Impling.
"I want. To. Wrap that up."
"I want to hug."
"I want to see the Frogs."