“Do each of your tattoos tell a story?” Avery asked a few minutes ago.
He had been sleeping, on his right side, in a chair in my office. Before going to sleep, he lined his cars up in front of his body (“sentinels to watch over me,” he said, though I’ve interpreted sentinel from his Avery-speak), told me he was going to sleep with his eyes open, and promptly fell into a closed-eye sleep.
(Didn’t tell Holly that Avery voluntarily took a nap; he doesn’t do these things for her.)
(Also didn’t tell her that Aurora took a more than four-hour nap; again, she doesn’t do these things at Holly’s house.)
Avery fell out of the chair, that’s how he woke up.
“I’m OK, daddy,” he said. “The cars kept me from being hurt.”
(Sometimes, I think he says things without knowing what he’s saying or what what he’s saying means; sometimes I think he knows exactly what he’s doing with the words he chooses to use.)
And then a few minutes ago, he was standing next to me, and he touched my shoulder, and asked about the tattoo there.
“Yes, Avery,” I said, “each tattoo tells a story.”
“Are they good stories or are they scary stories?” he asked.
“All good stories.”
“Am I a good story?” he asked.
“You’re the best story,” I said.
