That damp thing there, that's a bobbin.
Maybe a year ago, perhaps more, he confidently pronounced this body part a 'bobbin'... and who were we to correct him?
He says is very precisely: bob - bin; you hear the 'i' as in 'pin'.
Even better, he sees bobbins all around him. A peach has a bobbin. My attempt at coffee froth art looks like a bobbin. Bobbins are funny, of course.
It was a beautiful day today. "All the white is turning to blue," he says, looking at the sky. He insisted that we go to the zoo, but "not the zoo I go to with Grandma, the other zoo". Er, what's at the zoo with Grandma? "Giraffes and meerkats." What's at the other zoo? "Not animals." Ah. The Botanic Gardens... opposite the zoo.
The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, that I read over and over in my 20s - that feeling of missing something already, when you're actually still within the experience.
I'm just going to try to put aside that melancholy and eat him up as much as I can. And his brothers, for that matter. More days like this. Does anything else matter nearly as much?
- Jane x
(I believe a film was made of that Chabon book; a bad film. I'm glad I haven't seen it.)