"Jack's gonna get home," Myra says, "and he's gonna be like That's not a plane." She holds up a blunt-nose paper airplane, my design.
"Oh," I say.
"And," she says, "I'm gonna be like, YEAH, it is. Mom said it is, so IT IS." She leans her head forward, eyebrows arched. "And look it even really flies!" Purple running shorts, red curls like a bouquet of exclamation points, she flings the plane in a corkscrew nosedive.
Mom said it is, so it is. Creation. For a season, I speak things into being. Splendid.
Evening comes. We all squish next to each other on the long gold couch. Prayer circles and envelops us. We linger, the dregs of the day settle around us.
"I can't wait until we go backpacking," Myra says, "so we can make peanut butter cookies and stuff like that."
"Yeah?" I say.
"Um-hm," she says. "And play babies. We definitely have to play babies."
"Sounds good," I say.
The boys go backpacking. The girls stay home. We play babies and chop delicious salads. We quilt and paint watercolors. We read and linger over chocolate. We mold our attitudes to honor each other and God. Deep affection grows inside of us.
5520. Backpacking transforms the boys into men and the girls into ladies.
5521. We linger at the all church barbecue, something of a fair or festival, and soak in the camaraderie.