"...stars and moons flew past me as I fell," Trinidad told me, wide-eyed after a fall.
Sam's poetry vernacular dictated and scribbled onto a recipe card stuck to the refrigerator last year: "I sneakily hid and ate a piece of chocolate."
"Why did the intestine cross the road?" Sam asked me tonight. I shook my head and shrugged.
His eyes narrowed. "Because he didn't have the guts."
And finally, the paddle ball.
Sam got a cheap version of this classic toy at our local credit union as a "prize" for saving money under duress. He played with it for hours determined to strike it more than four times in a row.
"What if you could play paddleball infinitely?" he asked.
"What if?" I answered.
"That would be impossible," he said.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "What if an alternate universe opened its space and time to you right now and all you did was play and play and play paddleball...infinitely?"
I looked around me at the grocery lists, emails up for response, laundry to fold, and chickens waiting for their daily scraps. "Would it be so different?" I asked. "Sounds a lot like what I do all day."
Sam looked at me hard
and did not disagree.
