Graham, like many 4-year-olds, is into super heroes, his favorite being neither Superman nor Captain Marvel, but a pale imitation called Kewl Breeze, who peddles “airated” tennis shoes. We have a piece of advertising masquerading as a comic book — in which Kewl Breeze puts on his “airators” and battles the evil Blacktop, a golem made of hot tar who causes Kewl Breeze’s friends to have stinky feet — which if I have read to him once I have read 100 times.
“Wouldn’t you rather I read Hulk or X-Men?”
“No.”
He listens without a word, then when I’m done furrows his eyebrows. Half a minute goes by, then:
“How him alive?”
“Who, Kewl Breeze?”
“No. Blacktop.”
“Well, sometimes you can make a man out of stuff.”
“But how him alive?”
Should I tell him about the Golem of Prague? I elect for the Talmudic story of God breathing life through Adam’s nostrils.
He looks doubtful.
“It’s sort of like a robot. A robot is sort of alive.”
He’s still dubious. What I dread is going too far, which, when I do, always provokes the quick response, “What you talking about?”
“How are you alive?” I finally say.
This stops him. He cogitates a while, looks around the room meaningfully. We rest into the moment.
Then he says, “Tell about lizards.”
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