Scotty M’s voice floated downstairs last night an hour or two after he had been put to bed. Something was missing. Something important.
“Bankie? Bankie, where are you?”
Bankie was on the floor in front of me. I picked it up and made my way to the stairs. SW cooed over the innate preciousness of her three-year-old talking to his security blanket. Appropriate, certainly, but I had other plans. Standing at the base of the stairs, I called back in a high falsetto.
“Cowin! Cowin, it’s me, Bankie! Where are you, Cowin?”
Silence. Dead silence.
“Cowin ! Where are you Cowin? I miss you so much!”
…..”Is that you, Daddy?”
“No Cowin! It’s me, Bankie! Why did you go away, Cowin?”
Sharp intake of breath from above. Scotty M. bursts into hysterics and retreats back to his bed. SW and I proceed up the stairs to calm him down and restore Bankie to its proper place in life, but we have trouble stifling our laughter on the way.
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