“That’s where I raised my kids,” he said, pointing at the five-story construction project. Max was always saying things like that. Strange things, inexplicable things. Haunting things. Like the time he pointed to the underside of his toy airplane and explained where the bombs went, and how the compartment where the man sat was very, very small.
I cleared my throat and smiled at him in the rearview: my bright-eyed boy in the safety seat, his plump legs jutting out, his bright sneakers bouncing to the bumps in the road.
“Is that so?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Will Daisy Towne have a swing set?”
“Yes they do, honey. They’ve got swing sets, and slides and maybe even a seesaw.”
“What’s a seesaw?”
I realized he’d probably never seen one. The park by our flat didn’t have one, so I explained what it was.
“Oh I remember those,” he said, nodding.
Crazy, right? Okay, an explanation:
As I strolled down the street, in that surging, lurching way that one travels in streetview–where destinations never seem to get any closer until suddenly they’re gone–I had the weirdest moment. The tidy redstone church I was heading for turned covered in scaffolding, and then it was gone and I wound up in front of this, what you see above. There I was, tripping and skipping through space and time and unable to find my way back. And then for no reason, I remembered the strange things my son used say when he was little, and then this story happened.
I think it has something to do with the fact I devoured a season of Legion last week.
I’m sure I missed a fabulous opportunity to bone up on New Zealand but I just wasn’t feeling it today. So, instead I offer the above story, the spirit of complete non-sequitor, proving that inspiration can be whatever you want to do it it.