This morning, the Dragon Boy falls down and scrapes his hands. He comes to me and presses his wounded palms against mine and closes his eyes.
We stand there for a moment, palm to palm, right in the middle of the morning rush to the school building.
"You have enchanted healing hands," he says.
He believes it. I'm standing right there, healing him. It makes perfect sense because I learn--according to his precise genealogical record of the two of us--that we both came from the same enchanted forest. He's sure of it. We arrived in the same manner, and thus, we possess healing properties in our hands for one another.
Suddenly, the day turns into legend and myth. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis and Dragon Boy all mix in my mind. Anything can happen. That wardrobe might just take us all to Narnia this afternoon (or maybe we're already there).
Living with flair means we think about our enchanted healing hands. We possess healing properties. I'm starting to believe it.
I miss my own imagination sometimes, don't you?