“Hey, what if we pretend we’re Pokemon?” asks Conrad, who has walked back from where he stopped hiking. I almost blurt my first thought: What in the hell? Why can’t anything be real anymore? I am just inches away from breaking into an indignant rant. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue: When I was a kid, I used to run and climb and dig. With my father, I tunneled into a hill, making a cave. I hiked all along the river bluffs, even in sweltering summer heat—not just playing makebelieve games based on cards with strange-looking characters from a foreign la-la land. But even as I turn to give Conrad a wilting look, I hear our younger son reply, “Okay, but I get to be a Gengar.” Conrad scrutinizes his little brother for a second then says, “I guess. I’ll be a Zapdos then, and we can defend the mountain against Fire Characters. You ready?” So Luke rises to his feet and begins to walk, telling his brother what strengths he has and how he wants to use them. Then the two of them begin to jog in response to imagined threats, swinging their arms as if repelling blows and
Then the two of them begin to jog in response to imagined threats, swinging their arms as if repelling blows and sending out enchanted blasts of energy.
sending out enchanted blasts of energy. They rise up the mountain in tandem, with the older boy choreographing each scene and calling through the trees, “Watch out. They’re behind you. Stay in the shade. Levitate now. You can shadow-tag then I’ll hit them with a lightning bolt. Do it, do it, do it. Okay, let’s get out of here.” I marvel. I cannot believe the ingenuity of Conrad. Nor the sheer kindness—the way he has skillfully stepped in to help. When my wife reaches for my hand, I frown for a second. She is smiling as if savoring an inside joke, and I want to pull away. But, instead, I let go of my natural inclination to resist. I let myself enjoy this moment of unexpected relief, walking hand-in-hand, murmuring amused commentary about the galloping boys and the imagined adventure that is taking them up the steep, PROSE 33
