"Are fairy tales real?," Bee asked out of the blue. We were in the car, driving home from church.
"Nope," was my short answer, but her Dad followed up: "Why do you ask?"
"Because I wish they were real."
"Which fairy tales would you want to be real?"
"Jack and the Beanstalk."
"Why?"
"Because if the giant were real, he could come down here. He could look around and see all the great food he could eat. He would think the red houses and the red cars were watermelons. And he would think the yellow things on the electrical wires were frisbees."
She turned to me. "Would you let him destroy our house, Mom?"
"Not if you were in it."
"What about your new brown chair?"
"I would probably draw a line at the new chair."
"That's what you could do. You could draw a line on the house and the chair and the parks." It took me a minute to catch up with her here, as she continued to make a long list of all the things I could draw lines on--to limit the giant's rampage through our neighborhood. She had taken my metaphorical line literally and was extending the possibilities on and on. It was magical, how powerful that "line" was.
"Do you think the giant would need a map showing all these lines?" I asked.
Bee nodded. "Yeah. But it would take a lot of paper."
We arrived home and Bee left Jack and the Beanstalk in the car. But I kept thinking of her giant, who would mistake red roofs and red cars for watermelons. I was so glad her Dad had asked her that first follow-up question: "Why do you wish fairy tales were real?" If he hadn't asked, I would never have had a chance to travel along her line of thought: or to imagine a giant biting into our house expecting a juicy morsel, only to discover that shingles and aluminum siding taste like needles and splinters. The poor giant would splutter and stomp in confusion and pain. The house would be smashed, and the new brown chair, too.
And imagine me, the all-powerful mom, drawing impossibly powerful lines around all the things I didn't want the giant to destroy. I would have to draw quickly--because he's a hungry giant, Bee pointed out.
Dear child, I want to say, never lose that creative whirl of imagination that takes you into the mind of giants, that sees our world, which so few really look at, with a freshness that beguiles the hearer.
Dear parent, I want to say, remember to ask the next question--the question each first question begs.
Dear God, I want to say,
give me a child's mind and heart
that I might frolic
in the possibilities
presented by fairy tales,
dreams, and "impossible" prayers
that might--just might--
erupt
into vibrant life...
to the surprise of us all.
