Questions questions, often when left unanswered the children will either repeat the question, indicating they do indeed want me to give a response, or they’ll reply themselves . . . like today, while we walk in fresh snow, Jasper asks, Where does snow come from Mama?
We walk, he doesn’t repeat his query. After a while he stops, are these star babies? and we’re off imagining star babies and sparkles and snow, chatting while walking, pausing to scrape and shape, lick snow off pine needles, moving again to stand under trees flinging clumps at us, running after Clover, then he states, but it melts, see; he eats a bit and shows me . . . now what happens to the star babies Mama? Away we go through snow, to the bottom of the driveway, there’s footprints, trolls? sketis? bears? old man winter? On the way back we walk creekside where we pause, Jasper says, The star babies melt and move to the creek, that’s where they live! He’s storied his own question, fresh as snow.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who saw possibility in everything around him, imagining worlds with words untouched by information. He grew and grew, limbs stretching up, arms dangling down, limber and tall with a mop of hair that served as a hat. Though information came to him with time, he knew that word and world were linked, born like star babies from inner realms touching outer. He knew too that encyclopedias came to be born from the imaginings of mankind, the information in them once possibility that was explored before being bound and compounded, a reflection of human gleanings, outdated and updated as the world and word whirled around the wheels of years. The boy grew to swim in waters born of stars while wandering the world of many waters and streams. Now, what does a man do who’s swum in and drunk of starwater, speaks with stars?