It was warm enough in the sun to go sockless, but the sidewalks were unbelievably slick this morning on the way to the school, and it was mostly black ice, the trickster. Our first venture out only saw us across the street, scrabbling not to lose ground on the 3 degree grade of the curb cut, before I decided to come back home for my brilliant Ice Trekkers. I was then able to hold the boys' hands, stalwart as an oak, while they boot-skated, as James likes to say.
James's feet slipped out from under him. "That's OK," he said. "'I love to slip!' said the guard." Probably a quarter of James's conversation these days is delivered in this form, as dialogue attributed to one of his alter egos, most often a dog or a guard or a worker.
Henry slipped. "STOOpid ice!"
"Aw, the ice isn't stupid," I said."The ice is just being ice. It's enacting its icy nature."
Henry liked this idea. "Maybe the ice is protecting itself from its enemies."
I felt so happy. Maybe it was just the birds chirping, and the sun, and the fact that I was asleep last night before 9, but I enjoyed so thoroughly this perfectly--perfectly--characteristic exchange. I try not to make too much of the differences between Henry and James; I don't want either one to feel that he is the "X" one, while his brother is "Y". I don't want the way I see them to be fixed in my own mind, either. But I am certainly struck by this difference in the workings of their imaginations: James is forever trying on different characters--this morning, when he put on a pair of drab green pants (with puppies on them, but whatever), he threw his fist up in front of his face and grimaced fiercely, saying "I an army guy!"--while Henry is never anyone but Henry, making connections, drawing conclusions, speculating constantly on the mysteries of the world outside himself.
Equally typical were their reactions to slipping. James, making a virtue of necessity, is an inveterate spotter of silver linings. Henry, on the other hand, is a big one for cursing the darkness. I worry: Will James stick up for himself when he needs to? Will he be too devoted to peace to engage in necessary fights? Will Henry be able to forgive his own and others' mistakes? Will I ever be able to just hear his rage without reacting to it, making it worse? But sometimes, like this morning, it doesn't seem necessary to worry. It's just pure pleasure, watching them unfold.
