terrypetersen

Remember the quiet wonders. The world has more need of them than it has for warriors. (Charles de Lint)

My two other grandchildren are on their way to the Y with Grandpa. Our middle granddaughter isn’t feeling well today. She is staying home with me. When I ask five-year-old Rebe what she wants to do during Grandma-Rebe time, I already know the answer: “Let’s play house.”

Rebe is Mommy, and I am Daughter, no other name necessary.

“It’s time for school, Daughter. But first I have to wrap you in toilet paper.”

Okay. I expect confusion sometime during this experience, but not generally within the first few seconds.

“Uh, did you say . . . ?”

“Toilet paper. It’s Halloween, and you are going to be a zombie.”

“Oh.” That sounds more like a mummy. But, at least we’re back on the same page, and Rebe doesn’t request an actual wrapping. It all happens magically, as if the decision alone makes it happen.

We climb into the “car,” which is actually our rocking chair as a front seat and the couch as the back. I’m buckled into my imaginary car seat. “And tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Rebe says, appearing pleased to tell me the news.

Wow! Time flies quickly enough in the adult world. In pretend existence the speed of light seems slow.

I expect our little girl to forget the sequence of her plan, but in a few minutes she stops at my crib set and steps out of character. “Grandma, can I move these to the living room?”

I want to say, no. After all, the set was a gift from my parents. The figures are large and breakable. But, Rebe needs to know she can handle the situation, that she doesn’t have to be afraid. She is capable.

“Carry one piece at a time, doll baby. And use both hands. Then, tell me a story about what you are doing.”

She follows directions. However, her voice is so soft and gentle that I don’t hear many of her words. I do catch a sweet, innocent reverence.

Finally, after she has placed the infant in the manger in the center of her scene, she crosses her hands over her chest. “You can be in my heart now,” she says to the figure on the floor.

I smile—at Rebe my granddaughter, at Mommy, my pretending partner. They both need a tissue. But then again, right now maybe I do, too.