Magic

Legends of The Bear

My daughter asks me to do magic. I'm hesitant to tell Kingsley that magic doesn't exist, the conventional type of magic she is thinking of, where I can turn a bowl of broccoli into ice cream by waving my finger at it, not the whimsical magic often used to describe something seeming inexplicable or breathtaking, or deeply moving or beautiful, because I have lost touch with the notions she is being introduced to. I wrote them off a while ago as hocus pocus, mumbo jumbo, nonexistent silliness cooked up in children's books and TV.
While I think of how to respond to her requests or questions about magic, I think of All That, an essay by David Foster Wallace. The essay illustrates the mind of a child, and  how parents fit into that mind. Magic is held closely to children because of their lack of doubt, and the way a parent acts in regard to their children's beliefs impresses upon them.
An early magical memory I have is of my uncle with a half a finger pretending the tip of his finger grew back. He did this trick often, and I was always amazed and dumbfounded.
David's childhood memories seem to sadly contrast, his parents' game about his dump truck becomes slightly malicious, toying with the mind of a person they view as unknowing, yet simultaneously, they give him the regard of a fellow intellectual by engaging in one-on-one discussions at night called Talk Time.
Talk Time makes me rather jealous of the attention bestowed upon children who weren't raised like a pack of animals. My strongest memories from early childhood are of being embarrassed or afraid. The earliest memory I have is wrapping my arms around the leg of a man I thought was my father, and then looked up to find that it was not my father, but a stranger who was taken aback by a toddler clinging to him and reacted by laughing. As I stumbled back into a space of unknown, the crowd of people surrounding this strange man were all looking down on me and laughing with him.

Because my parents had five children in six years they spent most of my childhood treating life like a battlefield. Their heads were too submerged under water to playfully work together in hoaxing their budding offspring. There was no time for Talk Time. The earliest conversation I remember having with my parents was when my dad, unbeknownst to me, was standing in the doorway as I laid across my bed cradling old shoes, sobbing as I said goodbye to them. My dad spoke, making this intimate moment feel ridiculous. He asked me why I was crying and I explained to him that mom bought me new shoes and said I need to throw away my old shoes.
He told me, "Don't throw them away," confirming my farewell speech was stupid, and confirming my parents broken alliance. I stopped crying and put on my shoes with a hole in the toe.
Saturday was my grandpa's memorial and, of course, I forgot to pack Kingsley an appropriate pair of shoes. An affinity for beat up old shoes has trickled down into acceptable shoes for my children. This past week my Grandfather's house has been a honey pot for a local bear. The bear first emerged on Wednesday, sleeping under the house with it's head poking out. Then we saw him later laying in the front yard of a neighbor's house. The next day my dad saw the bear swimming in the water, crawling to the yard, and sprinting to the neighbors. The day before the funeral my uncle came face to face with the bear when he went in the underground wine cellar and turned on his flash light.
My dad said, "Pops came back for his memorial, as a bear." I laughed, and thought, "How very Legends of The Fall of him," but now I am taking my dad's thought more seriously. An animal that manages to remain unseen while trampling through the neighborhood has decided to spend this week galavanting around my grandpa's house in a humorous and nonthreatening way.
The day of the memorial, I sat watchful on the deck, hoping to get a glimpse of the bear, but he wasn't there. I wanted the bear to squeeze out from under the house, stand up, captivating all my grandpa's friends and family, wave his giant paw, then sprint off never to be seen again.
It would have confirmed there was magic taking place. But magic would not be magic if there was a confirmation of truth. Childhood magic occurs in an instant, snap of the fingers, and maybe it's because time is so dense to them. Adulthood magic is drawn out, so obscure the reveal isn't even noticed until well past the curtain fell. The curtain drifts down at a rate it's easy to forget a magic show is taking place.
David Foster Wallace's father believed David suffered from "antiparanoia," having a strong belief there is a universal conspiracy to make him so happy he can hardly stand it. Believing in  magic must be a symptom of "antiparanoia," assigning oddities a classification that makes them have deeper meaning than absurd or ridiculous. Assigning a meaning thats self indulgent, making the heart beat a little faster and giving way to an easy smile on the face.