You may not know it, but you have created an army of one, a fellow lizard-child who snaps, screeches and scuttles in your footsteps. He too can pronounce the names of prehistoric beasts known only to dinophiles and PhD candidates. His favourites, like yours, are the ones that rip open the throats of their prey. He's not afraid to get his hands messy.
Why do you get the credit? Maybe it's the stories we've told of your adventures, your precociousness, your unbound imagination, your wild-child beauty. Maybe it's the dozens after dozens of times he's watched your creature-feature, loving the moments when animals pee on you, or your uncanny ability to mimic the reptiles you catch. Maybe it's myth-making, maybe it's genetics; either way it's something to be proud of.
When we watch him, we are astonished and impressed by the way he loses himself in play. An empty egg-carton is a "neilodophilous" (yes, he made that name up) with an armored underbelly that lives at the bottom of the ordovician sea. Part of him wishes he was a time-travelling zoologist that could swim with such beasts; another part longs to be the beast. Sound familiar?
We know that every boy grows up to be his own man, but if E is lucky he'll share more than just your love of creatures. He'll be kind in the way that you are, brave enough to touch a wild thing gently, to show it a gentleness the real world rarely offers. He'll be a good son, a good brother, just like you. He'll know what it is to be loved and will love fiercely, without fear.
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