Lucas J. Weberley is a lad of 20 months. A wee lad. He commands a wee vocabulary, and can hold only wee amounts of things in his wee little hands.

The boy lives simply. He busies his days transporting plastic blocks of all colors, stacking them on tabletops and then swiping them off in a quick dismissive gesture, notifying the blocks they’ve exhausted their capacity to entertain. Lucas reveres bulldozers as monstrous mechanical gods that can move mountains. He pays no concern to the shift of continental plates, salary restrictions of professional athletes, or that whole eggs do poorly in a microwave. Neither does it matter to him if one shoe is untied, there’s a beet juice stain on his upper left pant leg, or that light rain is soaking his playhouse outside. Lucas demands little from life except lungfuls of clean air, nearby smooth surfaces from which to swipe blocks, and well-fitting shoes, tied or not. He does not insist on his apple pieces being peeled, does not aspire to be President.

Yesterday, sitting on the sunny lawn behind his house, Lucas conversed with a cricket. The two exchanged greetings, then relayed details of their day. They shared stories: Lucas told of an enormous metal monster that groaned as it pushed rubble around a construction site nearby. Mr. Cricket returned with an account of the delicious shiny green beetle that appeared practically at its jaws.

After sundown, Lucas’s day concluded in a Toy Story diaper. It kept his midsection warm, and would warm it further as the night progressed. The boy dreamed of a cricket, of red and white and yellow blocks, and of a bulldozer. Tomorrow will be a fantastic day.

Advertisements