The other day at Portrait a little boy came in, trailed by the dirtiest blankie I’ve ever had the honor of being presented with. That’s what he did, he came in, stuck his hand out to me, the only person in the store, and gave me his blanket. He spoke with an unnaturally thick Boston accent.
“Hi. Where’s your mama?”
“Mommy gone. Dad and, um, Lara outside. You look sad inside window. You want my bookie to kiss?”
“What’s your name?”
“Spencer. Why you sad?”
“I’m not sad. I’m serious. See?” I demonstrate knitted brows and frown for “sad,” knitted brows and no frown for “serious.”
“Oh. My mom serus.” He pushes the blanket toward me one last time.
“You take before cows come home?”
“Okay. Thank you. My goodness. Your bookie is sooo soft. You’re a good friend, Spencer.”
“Books good friends. Lara give me books. But bookie not book. Bookie BEST friend.”
Spencer spends the next fifteen minutes on my lap, on the floor of our children’s nook, telling me about where he thinks his mother might be. Very cheerfully, I might add.
Posted by Aida