On our way to preschool, I hear her pipe up from the backseat. Why is the car wet on the outside? Did it rain?
No, I tell her. The earth and the air were different temperatures and it caused the water droplets in the air to condense.
She’s quiet for a moment, then rejects my explanation. No, she says. It was maybe just magic.
Then she asks me if she can have a dragon? Please? One of her very own?
No, I tell her. Dragons aren’t real.
She insists that they are and I give up. Okay, I say, if you can find a dragon and catch it, we can keep it.
She will feed it fish stew, she says. Like the dragon in her book. And tangerines like Elmer Elevator.
And then we’re talking about chickens and why they don’t talk. And then we’re talking about what it means to “rewind” something. And then we’re talking about Grandpa and how he lets her eat her very own ice cream. And then we’re talking about where Easter eggs come from, and why she’s never seen a fairy, and how rainbows happen, and where crayons are manufactured, and whether or not her radish at school will have sprouted yet.
And I’m driving along, answering three hundred questions a minute, listening to the amazing concoctions of this little mind, thinking about how the whole world seems maybe just magic to her.
I kind of understand because she seems maybe just magic to me.
** Charlotte is three years and eight months old. Evie is (almost) five months old.