Toy Story

A fellow I know just opened up a new toy store on The Avenue, and business is hopping. He is in a good place. Yesterday was the grand opening, and though he has been doing business for a few weeks now, the place was really packed. He has all the old toys that adults remember from their childhoods, and they love to buy these for children. The toys serve as a cultural bridge, a connection. The children seem to enjoy the toys, too, and I think it good for them to play with something tactile and visceral in between the hours of doing that to which they are addicted. My friend's son already thinks he is working for the store as a consultant. He plays with the toys and gives advice and tells the owner what new items he should be getting in. In truth, he has the owner's cell phone number, so he is hardwired. I imagine him at school telling the other kids that he knows the man, and that he can hook them up if he wants to. He denies this to me, but I have my suspicions.

And so yesterday was kid day and after the store, my friend's son brought one of his friend's over for the evening. I am good with children, I think. They like me. All they really want is a safe place full of kindness (and dare I say it--love). I make up games and adventures for them and do not get angry when they act like kids. And so I think that they will remember me and the fun and profound times they had when they were young.

Last night while watching them play, I tried to remember things about my own life when I was their age. It was difficult. I don't remember much about the things that were said or my own thoughts, even. All I recall are colors and temperatures and odors and the way it all felt. I think of my teachers with whom I spent a majority of the week, and I can not remember the sound of their voices. I looked at a class photo from the second grade a while back, and I could barely remember some of the kids. I begin to wonder if my internal architecture has been broken down somehow or if this is simply what happens.

Last night, watching kids go crazy in the house with wildness and delight, I wondered how much of this they will actually remember. I think that I am helping make them better people, but will they will remember that? Maybe all they will remember is that I used a lot of garlic when I cooked or that I always wore shirts without patterns. And, of course, that I used to take photographs all the time.

We will not remember the same things, that is certain, and after some time, my memories will be erased and theirs will prevail, emerging once in awhile in a few brief utterances about the time we spent playing ball or fishing or digging up buried treasures, about the hours spent reading and practicing math, about the cooked meals and hugely planned holidays. . . .

It's enough. What else is there to do?