I watched him color.
He spread a sheet of paper out on our cheap coffee table though the thought of its cheapness never came to his mind only the smoothness and greatness of its surface.
He carried his box of crayons and markers to the table and carefully placed them out of his way. His small hands turned everything into something sacred, a relic. This isn't to imply that things weren't dropped or broken but that everything -- even at the age of three -- was still an object of wonder. Somehow these crayons were able to fill the paper with their magic, somehow.
And truly they must be magic. The smell is childhood, but, at the same time, the smell is also mortality, grey hair, lost years, alienation, suffering, but not to him. He doesn't think of things like that.
His work in reds and yellows told stories beyond representation.
"This is a volcano daddy, and this is lava and this is pumice and ash."
"Of course it is. It is beautiful. What's this?"
"Oh, that's a tree."
And, of course, it was because it was. A tree. A volcano.
There was more. There were ladders and pictures of me -- one of which became an octopus.
It was color and life. It was innocence. His eyes wide with the wonder of what he had done -- what the crayons had done. Some became favorites for a time like the white crayon that made the faintest lines on the cream colored paper.
So is this magic in our ignorance? At what point does our ignorance of something cause us fear? Why can't it always be magic, wonderful?
"Can I have another piece of paper?"
"Of course you can, my son."