visiting my godson's school

I was invited to Special Person's Day at my godson's school, and, wanting to look appropriately special, I bought the purple leather jumpsuit Eddie Murphy wore in Delirious; one of my better e-Bay finds. When I tried it on I saw it had to be taken in at the waist and let out at the shoulders, so, maybe next year.

My godson is a juggernaut. At his school, we arranged dowels in order of size, painted a picture, and arranged pegs in their proper slots on a peg board (see above). At home, we played with trains, and read a Richard Scarry book about occupations in which most of the jobs seemed to be done by men. The Bob the Builder episodes we watched had better gender parity, but really obvious foreshadowing. My godson adores earth-moving machinery, so we stood at his window and watched the wheelchair ramp being installed at his building. A silver-haired guy in the earth-mover smiled and waved, the younger guy with the shovel glowered. This got monotonous, but I didn't want to leave my godson standing on the windowsill. His dad slid a beanbag chair under the windowsill, and I was free to read the Darth Vader and Son book I had brought as a gift (for my friend, the godson got Sendak).

My godson and his dad and I were out for a walk when I realized I only had an hour to see the pre-Raphaelite show at the National Gallery, so I excused myself and got a cab.When I rejoined my friend and godson, the latter was really curious if I had successfully landed the cab, like I'd been big game hunting. I read him the Richard Scarry book again. His mom came home and asked if reading the Richard Scarry book twice made me want to shoot myself. I thought about it, and said no. We played with the trains again till it was time for me to catch my real train. 

On the rainy ride home I read the Rossetti book I picked up at the National Gallery. I'd been wanting to read Rossetti's translation of Dante's New Life for a while, but shouldn't have read it all in one sitting, on a rainy night, late, when I was so tired; the later sonnets about loss and dwindling time seemed very real; Dante can be a more potent downer than Richard Scarry. Still, the New Life was beautiful, and I like becoming better acquainted with both Dantes, Alighieri and Rossetti--the latter a much loved, lifelong friend.

When I'm old, my godson can visit me on Special Persons Day at the senior home, and maybe, while I conserve my mellow by gazing at the brawny workmen install the new wheelchair ramp, he'll read to me from the New Life.

Once will be sufficient for both of us.