Our literary visitor

For several weeks now, Henry has been talking about a ghost who visits our house. The first time it made an appearance, Henry explained that he had summoned it by knocking on the bedroom wall, causing it to apparate through the heating vent in the floor. Just lately, the ghost has taken up a sort of otherworldly Bookmobile service. It floats overhead and tosses books down to Henry, who picks them up and hands them to me, telling me the important themes therein. Nine times out of ten, these books are about puppies and boys playing on a playground. Sometimes there are snacks. Sometimes brothers. Once in a while it all gets kind of meta with the introduction into the book of a ghost.

At first I was intimidated by the pressure of telling one extemporaneous bedtime story after another. After all, isn't that how Winnie the Pooh came into being? Indelible characters, loving insight into the child mind, perfect mastery of the language, and generous lashings of Anglo-whimsey... it's all a bit much to pull out of oneself at bedtime on an ordinary Thursday evening. But really, all Henry wants to hear is that a boy went to the playground, slid down the slide, swung on a swing, threw a stick or a sweet gum ball into a puddle, and gave some snacks to his two puppies. Anything beyond that is gilding the lily.

The original Two Puppies: coincidental presents from two dads, Henry's & mine.