#62 I, Isabel Scheherazade have a way-back-seat memory about beaver dams that remind me of what’s happening with our Arturo and I have a pull at my mind and heart about the way he draws his Dad. There’s something my mind is trying to tell my heart or vice versa. Oh well, stuff’s improving at my end.
When Arturo looks at me, smiles, and talks–for a split second–I get this flash of a Way Back Seat memory of when I lived with Mom and Dad back when, well, back when they lived.
We used to get these beavers.
They dammed the brook that flowed through our back lot. Then the yard floods and starts to trickle into our cellar. Not a good thing. I go with Mom or Dad to stand on the dam and pull out sticks. If we get there before the beaver makes it strong and permanent, all we need to do is pull out a few branches, and then the force of the brook disintegrates the dam.
Well, that’s what happens with Arturo. The little book, his taking the pencil and sketching, telling a story with pictures and speaking the words to “read” the book and finally saying thanks–all that stuff broke the dam.
He Just Keeps Talking, like he had the words dammed up inside him.
Olivia asks him, So, what are you an expert at? Picking books? Drawing?
I look at her like she’s clueless because I already know what Arturo is great at.
I make Papa smile. He points to the smiling Dad. I’m an expert at it.
Olivia tells me later she was going to ask him why Papa was sad, but then our teacher announces, Time to clean up, kids.
I look at Arturo’s first picture, the one with Papa sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. There is something awfully familiar about this. I can’t put my finger on it though.
ISABEL who feels like some good stuff is happening