My husband believes in magic. It's something I love about him. Last night as we were driving home, we saw a black cat walk into a corn field. "Hello," said the cat. "I'm off to kill some wildlife, and maybe drive another species of bird toward extinction."
"Now, how do you know he's going to do that?" asked Aaron. "Maybe he's gathering a few ears to make popcorn."
"Oh, Aaron, I'm fairly certain that cat isn't going to make popcorn," I said in my "now you're just being silly" voice.
He smiled and said, "Katie, your lack of imagination is disappointing."
There's a low, wet place along the river where a thick grass grows sparsely, and at almost perfect intervals. He wants so badly for it to be a garden created by someone who, in protest of our industrial food system, took a hoe to a bit of state land.
I, on the other hand, am too grown-up for such things. I say to myself, "I don't believe in fairies," and I kill one every time.
I wonder why some of us, in our hurry to grow up, are so quick to throw out that sense of magic we felt as children. Aaron is giving it back to me, a little bit at a time. Now I imagine a bit of dialog for the Red-winged Blackbird chasing a Great Blue Heron across the falls. Sometimes, on my way to work in the morning, I imagine fairies on the cliffs along the river, hiding in the heavy moss and ferns.
This world needs more dream weavers.